Star Trek TNG: The Children of Earth
by Wordmangler
Summary: Two travellers from the ends of time meet, both on a journey that will teach them what it means to be human. Seeking answers to the mysterious visions of the future provided by the Mog-Ur, Ayla finds a man who might help her understand the path her people must take, as Picard begins to understand the final lesson imparted by Q about the true nature of exploration.
1. The White Globe

**FOREWORD (NOT FORWARD): **Star Trek and Earth's Children? A futuristic space fantasy and a story set in the remote past about cavemen? Your scepticism is understandable... But this isn't some silly wish-fulfilment fic: Star Trek and Earth's Children are, fundamentally, both explorations of what it means to be human. Leaving aside the technological differences, Picard and Ayla are both travellers, both seeking answers about humanity, both driven to learn and discover, to boldly go beyond the known into the unknown.

Background for Non-EC Fans: This was originally written for an EC (Earth's Children) fandom. Just in case there are any Trek fans interested in reading this who don't know EC, it's a book series set in the Palaeolithic, circa 29,000 years ago, and follows the story of Ayla, a Cro-Magnon woman who is raised by Neanderthals, then lives briefly on her own before meeting other modern humans, in particular her lover, Jondalar.

The Neanderthals, known in EC as the Clan, are not able to talk, but use signs to communicate. This means lying is impossible, and Ayla is very adept at reading body language to see if someone is lying or not. The mog-urs, the shamans, have the drug-enhanced ability to project their minds back into the remote past in vague glimpses. Ayla made the mistake of taking this drug, the Root, at one of their sacred ceremonies, and it gave her a vision not jut into the past but into the far future, to the present day and even beyond. This story takes that to examine just what she was seeing, and why. The first two paragraphs of the story in italics are taken from the original, in order to set the scene.

Note for Non-Trek Fans: in an effort to get the Trek bit as realistic as possible, I have made several references to at times rather obscure topics. Some I had to look up actually. Don't worry about them if you don't get them: they're not intrinsic to the plot, save one, which will be fully explained later on.

This Trekfic is set a few months after the series finale of TNG, just so I can reference basically anything I like, but mainly so I can not worry about it taking place in the middle of a canon adventure. The first TNG film, Generations, is set in very early 2371. This is autumn (in France) 2370.

Note for EC Purists: I have taken a few minor liberties with the spiritual beliefs of the Zels to make them less monotheistic (which I consider unrealistic) and more animistic like normal hunter-gatherer societies. The Mother is still there, and still prime, but no longer alone. That is, I have expanded the few references to 'spirits' as required.

**.**

* * *

**1\. The White Globe**

_Tall rectangular shapes stabbing out of the ground, studded with a myriad glowing fires along their sides, great black mountains full of tiny hearths. Far, far below, the ground ablaze with rivers of fire, white and red, cascading between the darkened cliffs. They whirled and spun, surrounding her in a sudden cacophony of noise, and then she was floating among the stars in ethereal silence, great coloured columns of cloud rising up before her, and strange streaks of light flashing in front of her, smooth oval objects that came and went so fast she could barely glimpse them. _

_Then the great pillars of dust resolved themselves, stars wheeled and collected, and out of the void appeared a craggy, deeply scarred face, the face of a man with but one eye, shining in the darkness under a massive brow ridge. My child, the man said to her. Ayla, where you go, I cannot follow. All children must grow up one day. All children must leave their hearth…._

"Creb!" Ayla's eyes flew open. She breathed deeply, seeing the familiar walls of her room under the great abri. Her heart still pounding, she lay back and looked up at the smoke-darkened rock that was the ceiling of all the members of the Ninth Cave. She shivered slightly. Winter was approaching, and the shallow shelter of stone was not as heat-efficient as a real cave or a Mamutoi earthlodge. The sleeping baby next to her stirred, and Ayla smiled. Pushing the dark visions out of her mind, she gently stroked the young girl's soft skin. Even in her moments of greatest fear and doubt, her child was always a source of strength and joy.

"I'm so blessed to have you, my darling Jonayla," she whispered. "You're a strong girl, like your mother. You'll survive the winter easily."

A brief frown crossed her face as she thought of the dangers of winter, the worst season for infant mortality. It was not uncommon for food supplies to run dangerously low towards the end of winter, and the weak often were not able to survive. But not here, not among the Zelandonii. This was not just one cave of a few dozen people: there were hundreds here, pooling resources and abilities. There was nothing to fear here. So why was she shaking?

Ayla slipped out of the warm sleeping furs, and dressed quickly. Pulling on a long pair of leather leggings, she followed that with a light leather tunic, and a parka of hides stitched together in a pleasing pattern over the top. Then she put on her boots, wrapping long cords around them and up her legs. She then gathered together her tea herbs, and in a few moments had two steaming cups ready.  
The large bundle of fur on the other sleeping platform stirred, and moaned. A tousled blond head appeared, and sniffed the air, followed by a long torso. Jondalar smiled, and sat up.

"How do you do it, Ayla," he said wonderingly. "How do you know just when I will wake up?"

"Experience," Ayla said happily, pleased as always by his simple wonder. "I can tell by the sound of your breathing, by the little noises you make, by the way you shift under the furs."

"You are amazing, you know that," Jondalar said as he blew on the tea. He didn't really need to, as Ayla was always able to time it so that it was ready to drink by the time he awoke.

"Winter is coming," Ayla said seriously.

"I noticed," Jondalar agreed, pulling the furs over his bare shoulders. "It's definitely colder this morning."

"I was thinking of going out later with Whinney to try for some birds," Ayla said. "The longer we can put off using our stores, the better."

"Should be all right," the tall man grunted, putting down the empty bowl. While they had been talking, Ayla had been heating up a stew with hot rocks, and she now poured it out into two bowls. Using their fingers, they began to eat.

"I want to get some more work done on that spear point I'm making," Jondalar said casually. "Might be able to trade it for some good quality hides. Some deer perhaps."

"That's fine for us, but I want to use rabbit fur for some winter clothes for the baby," Ayla said. "They're just the right size, and with their winter coat they're nice and warm."

"Sounds good. Maybe we can get a few extras to trade with as well. Your tanning is among the best in the entire Zelandonii, and everyone knows it. Those fl – Clan people – sure knew a thing or two about working leather."

Ayla blushed. Compared to the wondrously soft hides made by the people who had raised her, her own were stiff and uncomfortable. She was surprised that Jondalar's people were not as advanced in tanning as the Clan were, since they were so far ahead in other things, especially flint knapping. But the people known as the Clan had been living at the fringes of the ice for tens of millennia, whereas as her own ancestors were relatively new to the deadly cold of an Ice Age winter, and their experience with fur and leather was correspondingly less.

"Is Jonayla awake?" Jondalar asked, setting aside his empty bowl.

"Sound asleep," Ayla said, smiling. "She was a bit fractious last night, but eventually dropped off."

"Oh? I didn't notice."

"No, you didn't," Ayla said pointedly. Jondalar was about to object, but then he caught sight of her grinning face, and laughed.

"I suppose I had a bit much barma last night," he admitted. "But you have to admit, getting news of Joplaya's successful birth was a cause for celebration."

"I know," Ayla said. "I was worried about her, about the birth. It was a relief when the runner from the Lazandonii arrived. I couldn't go myself, not with Jonayla just born."

"Have you given any more thought to Zelandoni's offer?" Jondalar asked, suddenly serious.

A frown crossed Ayla's face. "I don't know," she said sadly. "I feel like I have an obligation, but all I want is to be with you and our child, to be the woman of your hearth, to watch my children grow up and have children of their own."

"But you can still do that even as One Who Serves," Jondalar gently pointed out.

"Not in the same way," Ayla replied. "I would have too many responsibilities, too many worries."

"Too little freedom," Jondalar added darkly, his brow furrowed. His mate had always lived her life the way she felt she needed to. Even among the Clan, she had been unable to fully conform. He had hoped that here, among his kith and kin, and the extended Zelandonii community, she wouldn't have to worry about that, that they would accept her and let her be. But it did not look as if that were the case. Already there were factions developing, between those that saw her as tainted with the filth of the flatheads, and those that saw her as a magnificent healer and spiritual leader. People like Marona and Ladroman, not to mention Zelandoni the Fourteenth, felt threatened by her, but even his own family was not as completely accepting as he had hoped. He passed a hand over his brow, feeling the corrugations. Why was Zelandoni the First so eager for Ayla to become One Who Serves? Why couldn't she just let his mate live the life of peace she had always craved? He was afraid that if pushed too hard, Ayla would want to leave – to go back to the Mamutoi perhaps. She didn't have the connections here that he did – all places were alike to her.

Ayla's voice broke in on his mediation.

"Can you look after Jonayla while I'm gone? I need to have a bath as well – it's the first sunny weather in days, and I want to wash my clothes."

"What if she wakes up though?"

"She shouldn't wake up for a few hours yet – that's why I want to leave now. It won't take long to get some rabbits and ptarmigan, and I should be back before the shadows are their shortest."

"Good hunting then, my most perfect mate," Jondalar said, his deep blue eyes gazing at her. "Our evening meal will be a good, one, I know."

Ayla smiled, drawn by their warmth and depth.

"We should make tonight special, in honour of Joplaya's new baby," she said, moving her hips in a way that made it quite clear what she meant.

"Woman, you are amazing," Jondalar said sincerely, feeling a sudden ache in his loins for her. That she could still do that to him with nothing more than a suggestive glance and sensual wriggle was amazing – he knew every inch of her body, more intimately even than she knew herself, and yet he never tired of it. But above all else, it was her smile that drove him mad with desire – her smile transformed her from a beautiful woman to a goddess. Mother, let me never lose her, he prayed as he watched her walk down the well-worn path to the river.

Ayla finished rinsing the last of the soaproot out of the leather tunic, and laid it over the rocks to dry beside her leggings. She had walked upriver a little way, not for privacy, but to avoid the fish traps set in the current. Easing herself in, she dipped her head under the water, experience having taught her that the best way to stand cold water was to get the head wet. The river was cold, but not as cold as many she had bathed in, and nothing like the nightmarish crossing of the Sister she and Jondalar had made on their Journey here. She still could barely believe they had made it across alive.

Ayla worked some soaproot saponin into her hair and scrubbed with her fingertips. She was still meaning to try to make the ash and lye cleaning cake that the Losadunii had, but she simply had not had time to experiment. Zelandoni was teaching her the traditions and histories of her new people, and there was a lot to learn – and to fit into raising a baby and taking care of a hearth. She rinsed her hair out, and started on her body. She had lost the small amount of fat she had gained when pregnant, but stretch marks were still faintly visible on her tanned skin. She realised with a start that she had also lost muscle tone – she had not been getting as much exercise as usual when carrying the baby. But even then, the work she was required to do with the Zelandonii was nowhere near as physically taxing as it had been when she was living with the Clan, or when she was on her own and hauling chunks of butchered animal carcass around.

Humming a Mamutoi hunting song, rather off-key, Ayla finished washing herself, and sat out on the rocks to air dry, after pushing as much water off with her hands as possible. She was lying back in the warm morning sun looking up at the sky when she became aware of a shadow over her.

"Oh, hello Marthona," she said, looking up at the older woman.

"Jondalar said you'd gone to bathe," Marthona said. She squatted down on the ground next to the young blonde woman. Ayla's nudity didn't bother either of them – living in such close quarters, with so little privacy, there was no embarrassment about being seen naked, and Ayla didn't even think of covering herself. To Earth's Children, a body was just something that was there, to be covered when cold and uncovered when hot, no more offensive than their hands or faces.

"He said you're still not happy about being One Who Serves…" the older woman added.

Ayla sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. "It's not really that," she began after a short pause. "I know I must become one – I know I cannot cheat destiny. In fact, I really do want to become one, if for nothing more than to honour Creb and Mamut. I know the calling is a noble one. I do not object to that at all. It's just…." She trailed off awkwardly, and looked over at the river, seeing it sparkle.

"Do you doubt your abilities?" Marthona asked gently.

"No, I know I have the talent," Ayla said. "It's not that."

Marthona smiled. Ayla's bluntness was a refreshing change after the at times too elaborate formalities of Zelandonii communication. Growing up in a culture where it was literally impossible to lie meant that she was still uncomfortable with distorting the truth, even when she knew there were times it was required by Zelandonii etiquette.

"What is it then?" she probed.

"it's…a feeling, a – what is the word? When you know something will happen?"

"A premonition?" Marthona asked.

"Yes," Ayla said, annoyed with herself for not knowing the word. She repeated it mentally to herself a few times, fitting it in linguistic context with the thousands of other Zelandonii words she knew. "Has Jondalar or Zelandonii said anything to you about my dreams, about my visions using the Root?"

Marthona nodded. The knowledge of the root that the flatheads – that the Clan – used was kept as secret as possible. Only she and Zelandoni knew of it, and Zelandoni wanted it kept that way. It was an extremely powerful substance, and Zelandoni had made it clear how dangerous she felt it could be.

"I have these fears," Ayla continued. "These recurring visions, premonitions perhaps, that happen when I use the Root, and sometimes even when I do not. Sometimes they are shown to be true. Like the flash flood on our Journey here. So…I, I worry that they all will be."

"Like the one of your son?" Marthona asked gently. She briefly recalled her shock on hearing of Ayla's son, a child of mixed spirits, neither pure human nor animal. Since then she had been able to realise that the Clan were not in fact animals, and had even realised that she herself had always known that – that it was precisely because they were not animals that they were hated so much. She was curious about Ayla's son Durc, and saddened that they had been parted. It had been hard enough on her when Jondalar and Thonolan left on their Journey, and now that Thonolan walked with the spirits, she could feel Ayla's pain.

"That is one of the worst," Ayla admitted eventually. "I fear for the future of the Clan. But it is another that makes me fear for the future of us all – Clan, Mamutoi, Zelandonii, and all the others of Earth's children."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Ayla shook her head. "No," she whispered. "Not now, not yet. But I'm afraid that if I become One Who Serves then I will see it all – that I will given knowledge of our destruction…the Mother leaving us…and that somehow I will be its cause."

Marthona's eyes widened. She knew better than to take Ayla's words lightly. The tall blonde beauty was not one to exaggerate for dramatic effect. If she was worried about something, then there was something to worry about.

"Have you told Zelandoni?" Marthona eventually asked.

"No. Not yet. I need to sort this out on my own," Ayla said. She stood up, and felt her clothing. The leather was almost dry. She began to get dressed.

"We are always here for you, Ayla," Marthona said. "We are your family now. Do not forget that, please."

Ayla nodded, tying on her boots and picking up her spear-thrower and the leather quiver of short light spears it used. "Thank you, Marthona. It is good to talk."

"Good hunting, mate of my son."

The older woman watched as Ayla walked away, and sighed. Why did such a young woman have to bear such a burden? Why had the Mother singled her out with such gifts that only gave her pain? Marthona shook her head. Such things were best left to the Ones Who Serve to ponder, not the likes of her. The older woman sat down on the sun-warmed rock and watched the waters of the river flow down to their destiny.

* * *

_Captain's Personal Log, Stardate 48421.05, the year AD 2370 by the Standard Revised Gregorian Calendar of Earth. The Enterprise is undergoing engine modifications at the Utopia Planitia shipyards orbiting Mars. Commander LaForge and Dr Leah Brahms are attempting to incorporate some of the Kozinsky Equations into the matter-antimatter reaction control matrices. At Dr Crusher's insistence, I am using the time for some long-delayed shore leave. Commander Data and I are headed towards Earth, he to present a paper at the Daystrom Institute on creating emotional resonance pathways in positronic nets based on the new emotion chip he received from his brother Lore, whilst I have accepted an invitation by Professor Auguste Tryphon of the Lascaux Institute to visit the hallowed halls of our distant ancestors, a rare honour._

"Tea. Earl Grey. Hot." Picard took the steaming cup from the replicator, and returned to his seat.

"I find it interesting, Captain, how humans can be so mechanical at times." Data commented, observing his captain dispassionately.

"How so, Commander?"

"I have observed you order tea from the replicators two hundred and twenty-three times over the last seven years, and each time you use precisely the same words, with the same intonation and timing. In fact there is less than six per cent difference between variables."

"Well, perhaps we're not so different, Data," Picard mused, sipping his tea. "The French architect LeCourbiser once called a house 'a machine for living'. Perhaps that better describes humans, however. After all, mechanics is all about efficiency, and so is evolution."

"But evolution is not as efficient as engineering, sir," Data countered.

"No, not in the short term perhaps," Picard agreed. "But over the millennia, through blind trial and error, it has succeeded in producing some remarkable machines." He looked at his hand, and flexed his fingers, studying how they moved. "There are some who say that the Earth is like a giant laboratory for DNA-based engineering, one that operates on a scale we cannot truly begin to comprehend."

"That is at best merely an analogy sir, since a laboratory presupposes an intellect guiding and directing the experiments."

"True enough, Mr Data," Picard murmured, looking out the window at the great blue globe ahead. "But still, remember Professor Galen's research – and those ancient humanoids that seeded the galaxy with their DNA. So in some respects there was an intelligence directing the experiments, or at least setting them up."

"Coming out of warp sir," Data interjected.

The starfield resolved itself into the familiar patterns of Earth's constellation, and as Data swung the shuttle around on its descent trajectory a great blue and white globe filled the screen. Picard saw it, and a faint smile briefly lit up his face. It was always good to return home, especially now that his nephew was growing old enough to take a real interest in Starfleet. He was down there, somewhere, under the cloud cover that obscured France. Picard put down his tea, and sighed contentedly.

"There it is, Data. Mother Earth. Just think: that fragile ball hanging there in space is where all of humanity's art and science and civilisation grew up. It is the womb and the cradle of the billions of humans across the Federation, even though many may never see it."

"I find it strange how humans refer to the Earth as their mother," Data commented after a short but precisely-calculated pause. "You evolved and grew up there, but beings do not refer to their residence as their mother, but rather the one that created them. And the Earth did not create you; your parents and ancestors did."

"The term comes from the idea that the Earth is the source from which all life sprang, Data, not just humans. It is a world-view that sees humans as just another one of the Earth's offspring, no more unique or privileged than whales or horses or trees. It used to be thought that the idea of an earth mother came from the early farming communities, but some of the very earliest known human art is of obviously pregnant and thus fertile human females, and it is hypothesized that they represent some sort of spiritual or religious ideas of the female divine."

"Fascinating," Data said. "And do these—"

He was cut off but a sudden loud warning from the alarm, and at the same time the shuttle lurched sideways faster than the inertial dampers could compensate, throwing the two Starfleet officers to the floor. There was a blinding flash, and a sharp internal wrench as reality seemed to flicker and then stabilize.

"Status, Mr Data!" Picard called as soon as he could sit up.

Data leapt to the control panel, and quickly scanned it. "It looks like we were caught in a chronowave eddy," he said.

"What? How could that happen?"

"Scanning." Data's hands skimmed over the touch-sensitive controls of the craft, accessing and correlating data. "An unshielded chronodrive was activated at this precise point in the local relativity matrix," he said. "We were caught in its wake and pulled off course."

"Off course? Where are we?" Picard said, looking out at the rapidly-growing globe still hanging in front of him. It looked the same, but there was something he couldn't quite put his finger on, something different.

"Not where, Captain. When. Analysis of stellar cartography puts us at…roughly thirty thousand years in the past."

"The Ice Age!" Picard suddenly knew what was wrong with the earth. The massive area of shining white he had thought was cloud was in fact the huge ice sheet that covered the top third of the northern hemisphere. They were too close to see the southern, but he knew that it too would have its own covering of ice and snow. "Is there any contact on subspace? Can you get any messages out?"

"Negative, sir."

"Merde," Picard swore softly. "Never mind. Find us a place to put down and we'll wait for someone to pick us up. Shouldn't be too hard for them to track us."

"No sir," Data added. "However we may not have much choice about the landing site."

"What do you mean?"

"The accident has damaged the impulse drive, sir. We are going to crash."

.

* * *

**NOTES:**

TNG is not actually my favourite Trek (DS9 by a lightyear, no question) but Picard is the best choice for the Palaeolithic given his interest in archaeology. Kirk would end up trying to seduce Ayla, Sisko would probably get even more visions from the Mother (aka the Cave Aliens) than Ayla, and Janeway would immediately start walking back even if it took 30,000 years.

Extra note for non-EC fans (again, assuming any are reading): "Zelandonii" is the name of the tribe. "Zelandoni" is the title of the spiritual leaders of that tribe.

"Auguste Tryphon" is taken from Professor Calculus's orginal French name (Tryphon Tournesol) and his inspiration (Auguste Piccard).


	2. A Meeting of Two Peoples

**2\. A Meeting of Two Peoples**

Ayla rode her horse out onto the wide ice age steppes, the great fertile grasslands that sustained an extraordinary abundance of life. She trotted along gently for a while, following the natural curves of the landscape. She had no particular destination in mind: many birds used the long grass for nesting, and so could be found anywhere. All she had to do was wait, and be alert.

A sudden movement made her start, the sling already moving. But she checked her throw – it was only a sparrow. Far too small for a decent meal, and too many bones. Perhaps they would be glad of them later, as food stocks dwindled, but not just yet. She rode on for another period of time, the sun slowly rising in the clear south-eastern sky, burning away the morning chill. She heard a brief clap of distant thunder, but paid no attention – it was far too far away to worry about.

She caught another movement, and this time let fly. Two fat birds thudded to the ground in quick succession. Wolf bounded up to them, where he stood guard over his mistress's kill. Ayla slipped off Whinney and quickly gathered the ptarmigans up, binding them together at the neck with a long leather cord before she slung them over her back and remounted. Two was a good start, but she wanted at least ten, and some rabbits as well. Ones in their white winter coats would be best, and fetch the highest trading values. White was the most precious colour among the peoples of the Stone Age, for it was rarest and purest.

Then she saw it – a flash of ivory darting through the grass. The change of seasons was the most dangerous time for the animals that changed their coat, as a slight discrepancy between weather and appearance meant that their camouflage worked in the opposite way, making them more visible. Ayla whipped her sling around her head and the rabbit gave a yelp as it died. She dismounted and walked up to it, her flint knife out.

Suddenly a great crashing boom echoed over the plains. Ayla ducked instinctively, and looked up at the sky. It was clear, with high thin white clouds. But there was one cloud that was far longer and thinner than the others, arcing across half the sky. She had never seen one like it before. But the sound had not come from there. She stood up, and looked around, trying to remember. Yes…it was from over there, behind the ridge. She quickly slit the rabbit's throat, trying to keep the fur as clean as possible, and then she remounted Whinney, and trotted over the hill, Wolf at her side. What she found on the other side was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

A great wound had been torn open in the ground, like a claw ripping up the earth itself. At the far end something pale sat, glowing brightly at one end with green fire. Fear and curiosity battled within the young woman, and she clutched her amulet nervously. Was this a sign from her totem, the greatest yet? What did it mean to see this huge wound, this giant slash in the Mother Earth herself, just at the time that she was being pressured to become One Who Serves? Was this encouragement…or a warning?

Her heart beating fast, she headed to the far end. There was a strange smell in the air, bitter and sharp. The air was deathly still, the birds and animals having been frightened into silence. But as she drew nearer to the large object at the end, she could hear a thin high-pitched humming. It was not very loud, but in its steady pulse she was reminded of the bullroarer used at the Clan Gathering to summon the Great Bear Deity Ursus himself, and she felt fear. She would go no closer – her totem, or the Mother, would not send her a sign that brought on such fear unless it were indeed a warning.

She turned from the object, and headed directly away from it, riding faster and faster. After a few moments the sturdy steppe horse tired, and Ayla allowed her to slow to a canter. Something terrible is about to happen, she thought. The Mother is being attacked – she may be dying. We need to save her – I need to talk with Zelandoni; find out what this might mean. It was then that she noticed the two figures standing in the middle of the grasslands.

* * *

"Captain! Captain!"

Picard heard the words as if from a deep dark velvet hole. His brain slowly pieced the sounds together and processed them.

"Captain Picard, can you hear me?"

He opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, on the ground, with Data leaning over him.

"Commander…. What happened?"

"I was unable to land the craft successfully, sir. It crashed six-point-seven kilometres from here. There was an explosion just as I activated the emergency transporters, and your right fibula is cracked."

"So that's what the pain is," Picard grimaced, suddenly feeling it. Data opened the medkit and took out a hypospray. Pressing it to the captain's collar, he injected a standard dose of painkillers. The relief was almost immediate, but not total. But Picard didn't mind: he could think clearly again.

"Where are we, Mr Data?"

"Technically, sir, we are in France, near the river Vezere."

"Vezere…why do I know that name?" Picard mused. "Of course! Lascaux!"

"Sir?"

"Lascaux, the caves – the ice age art! Well, well, Mr Data, we're actually right where we were headed – only thirty millennia before we were supposed to get here!"

"Correct, captain. However at this stage the cave system at Lascaux was not yet painted."

"No, you're right," Picard said, his face falling. For one wild moment he had yearned to go there, to see the caves as they were when freshly painted, to experience them as they had been meant to be seen – alone, in the flickering light of a torch, seeing the first feeble glowings of art and culture, the first tentative steps towards Rembrandt and Picasso and Qin Shixia, a small beacon lost in the vast untamed wildness of the Palaeolithic. He sighed, then pulled himself together and sat up.

"Can you stand, captain?" Data asked, his face shifting smoothly into a finely-judged expression of concern.

"We'll find out in a moment," Picard said. "Help me up."

Holding onto the android, Picard hauled himself to his feet and gingerly tested his weight. Pain shot through him, and he winced. No, this was a bad idea. Even if he could cope with the pain, the leg was still severely damaged, and walking on it would only worsen it. Holding onto Data's shoulder, he looked around the area. They were on a wide, gently rolling prairie, studded with small trees. The sun was high in the sky and warm, but the wind was cold.

"Well, Mr Data," Picard said grimly. "Looks like we'll need to find shelter. Can't spend the night in the open, not out here alone."

"Captain," Data said softly, looking past Picard to the grasslands. "We are not alone."

* * *

Ayla slowed, and walked Whinney up to the men, slipping a spear into her atlatl, but keeping it out of sight. She did not know these men, and their clothing was strange. One, the elder, was wearing a tight-fitting tunic and leggings of red and black, while the younger one was in a similar costume of yellow and black. As she drew nearer, she could also see that his skin had a strange hue to it, a golden sheen that she was not familiar with.

She stopped about a hundred paces from the two men, watching them, whispering calming words to Whinney. Wolf growled at the horse's feet, and she silenced him with a quick command. She sat easily astride her mount, and waited. The older man opened his arms out, palms up, showing no surprise or fear of her horse. Ayla backed off a few steps, then held her ground as he continued to stand there, his face in a gentle smile. She could see he was unarmed, and this reassured her. Indeed, the only things he seemed to be carrying were a few pouches at his waist. He was being supported by the younger man, and seemed lame. At his age, that was not surprising. He did not seem like a threat at all, however. Cautiously, she urged Whinney forwards. She stopped when she had halved the distance between them. The man smiled, and spoke. But his words were a fluid stream of sound that conveyed nothing to her.

"In the name of Doni the Great Earth Mother, I greet you," Ayla called out, hoping they understood Zelandonii. She repeated her words in Mamutoi, but to no effect.

The older man, whom she could see was almost entirely bald, looked puzzled. It almost seemed to Ayla as if he had expected to understand her, yet could not. He spoke again, his words flowing into one another like song.

"I do not understand your language, stranger," Ayla said. "You must have come from far away. Do not be afraid of the horse and the wolf: they are my companions, and will not hurt you." She didn't know if anything she said could be understood, but hoped her tone would be. When she had been learning Mamutoi in the earthlodge, she could often tell what someone was saying from their tone, even if many of the words were unfamiliar. And indeed, the strange man seemed to understand she meant them no harm. He smiled again, and pointed at his chest.

"Pi-kaad" Ayla heard him say. "Day-tah" he added, gesturing at his companion.

Ayla nodded in understanding. "Ayla," she said, pointing at herself. "Ayla." She didn't try and give her lineage, as she knew it would not be understood. Not yet.

"Aye-la," the man replied, smiling, then added something else to his companion, who replied briefly. The older man looked puzzled, and shook his head. The younger man said something more, and Pi-kaad nodded, and faced Ayla once more.

"Ayla…talk, talk much," he said. Ayla was astounded. How did he know those words? Pi-kaad repeated his request, and Ayla suddenly realised he wanted her to talk. Why? What could she say? Perhaps he just wanted to hear her tone, she decided.

"My name is Ayla, formerly of the Clan and the Mamutoi, who live far to the east of here, but now of the Zelandonii, and mated to Jondalar, son of the mate of the leader of the Ninth Cave. This is Whinney, and Wolf." She gave Whinney's name in Zelandonii, and Wolf's in Mamutoi.

"Greetings, Ayla," Pi-kaad said. "I am leader Jean-Luc Picard of the star boat Enterprise. We come in peace."

Ayla looked at him, puzzled. The word he had used for 'leader' was the term for the commander of an exploration or hunting party, yet these men did not look like hunters. Where were their spears, where were their companions? And what did the words 'star' and 'boat' mean together?

"Welcome in peace, Picard," Ayla replied.

"This is sub-leader Data," Picard said, gesturing to his companion. Again, the phrasing was unusual to Ayla's ears, and she thought she detected a strange echo to his words, as if he were speaking in a small cave.

"I greet you, Ayla of the Zelandonii," the man named Data replied smoothly. "We did not mean to disturb you. We were on a trip, and got lost."

"If you would like to return with me to the Ninth Cave, I am sure there are people there who can give you directions," Ayla said.

"That won't be necessary, Ayla," Picard said. "We have somewhere we can go. It was an honour to meet you," he finished, looking at her with an unreadable expression.

"Farewell, travellers," Ayla said. "May the Mother watch over you."

"Thank you." The elderly man turned, and winced. Ayla could tell at once that he was injured, and her medicine woman instincts rose over all others.

"Wait. You are hurt," she said.

"It's nothing," Picard grunted.

"It is not nothing," Ayla said, getting down from Whinney. She went up to him, surprised at how short he was. He had seemed taller from further away, but up close he was about a fist shorter than she was. She scanned him quickly with a practised gaze. There was something very suspicious about the way he was holding his leg, something that wasn't mere lameness or old age. "Your leg is broken! You cannot walk in that condition! Come back to the Ninth Cave with me and let me treat you."

"No, that really isn't a good idea," Picard said. "Commander Data can assist me."

Picard was grateful that the woman was friendly, but he didn't want to risk violating the Prime Directive, least of all with his own ancestors. Contact with pre-warp civilisations was strictly controlled, in order to allow them to develop naturally, and the thought of what could happen to the time line if anything he or Data did caused history to unfold differently on Earth gave him a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. The Universal Translators sometimes could be more a hindrance than a help, he decided, not for the first time. It had taken the devices a while to establish a pattern sequence, as the vocabulary and syntax of the Ice Age was only remotely connected to modern languages, but if they had failed, that would at least have allowed them to remain apart from this world.

"Captain," Data said, "I could carry you to the shuttle but the radiation levels are too high for prolonged exposure. We cannot remain out here – it will probably drop below freezing at night. Perhaps we should follow this woman to her people to treat you properly." He took out the medical tricorder again and scanned Picard's leg once more. "The swelling is worse, Captain. We must get you treated, and sheltered."

"Very well," Picard said reluctantly. In truth, he was far from disappointed. He was eager to use what opportunity he had to study these people, and learn more about the vanished cultures of the Ice Age. "But we must be prudent, Mr Data, and not, uh, burden our hosts unnecessarily, if you take my meaning."

"I understand, sir," Data said, finishing his scan and putting the tricorder away.

Ayla had not followed all of the conversation, and had no idea what the object Data was holding was. She presumed it was a small shamanic token, a representation of the Mother perhaps, from its squat cylindrical shape. But she didn't need that to know what a broken leg looked like. The Clan hunting technique required them to get in close to big game, and injuries were common. As a result the Clan medicine women were highly adept at treating broken limbs, and Ayla was after all a fully-trained medicine woman of the Clan. This was her domain.

"I am taking him back to the Ninth Cave," she announced. "I am a healer, and can fix him. Data, I will require some bark from that tree over there. Here is a knife."

Data took the proffered flint knife with hesitation, but ran over to the lone tree nearby at an impressive pace. Ayla hurried back to Whinney, and pulled out some spare cords to bind the bark splint with. She didn't bother scouring the area for healing plants, as they were close to the Ninth Cave and all she needed was there, in her living area. When the sallow-faced man was back with a large armful of bark she quickly and expertly applied it to Picard's leg, wrapping it around tightly with the cord. At the same time Data gave him another shot of painkillers, as well as some sedatives.

"Where is the Ninth Cave, Ayla?" he asked. Ayla pointed.

"If you can help get him onto Whinney, she can carry him back," she said. She looked at Picard's face. The man was breathing shallowly, his face pale, but he seemed lucid and not about to go into shock. She was impressed with his fortitude. Few men could be so strong with a broken leg. That Doni figure must be a powerful charm, she thought.

Data bent down and lifted Picard up easily. "I can carry him more smoothly than the horse," he said.

"It's a long walk to the cave," Ayla warned. "Perhaps you should let Whinney take him."

"I do not tire," Data said simply. Ayla arched an eyebrow, but kept silent. He was obviously devoted to his leader, and she would let him carry the injured man as long as he safely could. Keeping an eye on him, she whistled for Wolf, and the small group started back to the river valley.

.

* * *

**NOTES:**

It was quite tricky actually working out a way for the immovable object of the Prime Directive and Picard's sense of duty with the irresistible force of Ayla's need to heal him and my own need to have them go to the Ninth Cave. I'm not totally happy with the solution, but I was sick of trying different things, and didn't want to start from scratch.

"Rembrandt and Picasso and Qin Shixia" is a Trekkian staple: depict the future by referencing two things we know and one we don't, preferably not too Eurocentric. "Qin Shixia" (秦世霞) is made up.


	3. The Great Abri

**3\. The Great Abri**

Ayla was amazed at the stamina of the younger man. He showed no sign of slowing, stumbling, or even perspiring. He simply kept carrying Picard's limp body in a smooth, unhurried pace, holding him stable and level. The Ice Age woman had no way of knowing of the billions of calculations per second that were enabling the android to compensate instantly for the slightest change in terrain to maintain Picard at a constant height above the ground calculated to three decimal places. She only knew what she could see, and it was impressive. Her own endurance was almost legendary, but she was nothing compared to this man. Not even the Clan were.

The sun had passed its zenith and was well on its way down towards its western home when they came to the lip of the steep valley wall, and made their way down a well-used path. They came to a river, and Ayla led the way downstream for a while before a great cliff loomed up before them, topped with a massive stone that seemed frozen in time, forever on the verge of falling.

Picard had spent most of the journey in a painkiller-induced haze, but now he was fully alert. Despite his misgivings about being taken to the woman's home, he was fascinated by the sights and sounds and smells around him. He looked around eagerly as they drew up to the huge shallow cave that seemed to be Ayla's home. It sloped slightly up towards the rear, and was full of low stone enclosures that Picard guessed designated individual housing units. Smoke issued from the tops of many, and he realised that they were unroofed. _Why bother_, he thought, _when the vast rock shelter does the job so well?_

As they entered the cave, numerous people stopped what they were doing and stared at them. Picard felt self-conscious, carried like a baby in Data's arms, and acutely aware of how unusual his clothing must seem to these people. _Just as well I didn't bring Worf_, he thought with a smile, then grimaced as Data gently lowered him onto a bed of soft furs inside one of the stone huts.

Ayla lost no time in getting to work, but the other man stopped her.

"I am able to treat him with greater efficiency," he said. "I have brought items with healing powers and powerful medicines." He indicated the smooth bag slung over his shoulder.

"I can heal him with what I have here," Ayla said, slightly annoyed that he seemed to be casting doubt on her abilities.

"What I have is better," Data said. "You must allow me to use it."

"What knowledge do you have of healing?" Ayla asked suspiciously.

"Considerable," Data replied truthfully. "It is likely that I know more than you do."

"Ayla," Picard said weakly. "Mr Data is only trying to help."

_Data…is that a real name_, Ayla thought to herself. _It's certainly an unusual name. It sounds like the word for 'facts', or 'knowledge'. Maybe he is a great and powerful healer among his own people_. She examined Picard's face again, and felt the steady pulse of his heart through the unusual material of his tunic. He should survive without immediate treatment, she decided.

"Very well. You may treat this man. He is, after all, one of you," she acquiesced. Data nodded, and opened his bag. Then he stopped, and looked back at her.

"I am afraid I must ask you to leave this enclosure," he said.

"Leave? Why must I leave?" Ayla demanded.

"Our…religious beliefs forbid any outsider from witnessing our healing ceremonies," Picard said, unhappy at the untruth, but knowing it was necessary to keep Ayla from seeing Federation technology.

"You are lying," Ayla said, her temper rising. Who did these men think they were? They doubted her abilities as a healer, and now lied to her to get her to leave her own hearth!

"Lying? Why do you say that?" Picard asked nervously.

"I grew up with…a people who communicated by signs," Ayla said. "When the entire body is used to create speech, it becomes impossible to lie, for the body would betray the lie. As yours has."

"I see," Picard said grimly. He tried to focus his mind against the pain, using an old Vulcan mental ritual taught to him by Sarek, Spock's father. Did it really matter if she saw the technology? She lived in a world governed by magic, spirits, and superstitions. Wouldn't she just dismiss it as more magic? And even if she didn't accept it, they were too far in the past for any real effect – the economic and political structure of the time would not allow any real changes. Humans here were still dominated by their environment, which had created a fantastically stable culture that outlasted any single civilisation since.

"You may stay," he said at last. "But do not be alarmed at the… magic you will see."

Ayla nodded, confused. She had detected a slight twitch of his eye when he said 'magic', but why? All healers, both physical like Iza, and spiritual like Creb and Mamut, used magic, after all. Was this dangerous magic, like the Root? She resolved to keep a very close eye on things.

Picard lay back down on the furs, inhaling their odour, a mixture of sweat, cooking smells, and leather. He had not been prepared to have his white lie seen through so easily. This woman was far more perceptive and intelligent that he had initially been prepared to give her credit for. Perhaps he should have allowed her to heal him, rather than Data? No, no, that was impossible. Even if she could set bones, they would take weeks to heal. And the longer they stayed here, the more damage they could do to these people's worldview. Better some small quick display of mystery in private than a long, drawn-out contact.

Ayla watched, fascinated, as Data opened the kit he had been carrying, and took out a small grey item the size of his fist. It looked like it was made of smoothly-polished stone, but did not seem very heavy. Suddenly she gasped. He had split the stone open, into two halves! Inside there were masses of tiny fires, flashing in different colours. It reminded her a bit of the sparks her firestones produced – could this be another type of firestone?

She watched as Data moved the small round object in his other hand over Picard's leg, as he had done earlier. Was this a blessing by Doni before the operation? That seemed logical, and Ayla's hand closed around her amulet as she sent a silent prayer to her totem to protect this brave stranger. She got out her sharp flint knife, the edge as sharp as any blade of metal, and prepared to cut off Picard's leggings to allow Data access. But he made no move to do so. Instead he folded up the stone and replaced it, taking out instead a long thin stick, perfectly smooth and of a pale white shade. Ayla gasped when she saw it suddenly glow with blue fire, and averted her eyes. This was indeed powerful magic – even Zelandoni had nothing like this.

Data moved the stick up and down over the ugly swelling in Picard's leg, which to Ayla's utter astonishment began to subside as she watched. In a few moments it was all over. Data replaced the magic wand and Picard smiled, feeling his leg and wriggling his ankle. Ayla couldn't believe her eyes. She had never seen healing magic of this power before. It was beyond anything she could have imagined. She had to know it.

"You should be fine now, Captain," Data said. "It would be advisable not to put too much stress on the leg until the bones have fully fused, in a day or two."

"You make a pretty good field medic, Mr Data," Picard said, sitting up. He glanced over at the woman who had helped them. She was sitting back on her heels, a look of stunned amazement on her lovely face. Picard pursed his lips, and avoided her gaze. It was going to be hard to keep this quiet, but he had to try. And while walking the tightrope between lying and saying too much.

"Ayla," he said softly, "this was a very special, very difficult operation. It would perhaps be best if you did not talk of this to the others. They may not, uh, understand its power."

"I do, however," Ayla said quietly. "What else can you heal?"

"Uh, most injuries," he admitted. "But our devices have limited power so, so far from their home. They would not be of much to you."

"Picard, I am a healer. How can I ignore what I just saw? Such magic could save many lives, could make the difference between life and death not just for one person, but an entire cave, by allowing the injured to hunt again."

"I was afraid this would happen." Picard said sadly. "Ayla, we are bound by oaths of the most binding nature not to share this knowledge with people like you. We dare not."

"Oaths?" Ayla stood up, suddenly angry. "You hide behind oaths while people are dying? We all share, just as I shared the secret of the firestones, just as—"

She broke off. Zelandoni had been opposed to sharing the firestones, she suddenly remembered. She had not fully understood why at the time either. But now she was wiser, more experienced. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the two strangers suspiciously. What cave were they from? Why had they come here? What did they want of the Ninth Cave?

"Who are you?" she said.

Picard and Data exchanged glances.

"We are travellers," Picard explained. "We come from a long way away."

"No, that's not right," Ayla said, still too angry to be diplomatic. "Your body cannot lie, even if you can. You have concealed something."

Picard looked puzzled. "I don't think so. What I said was true."

"Yet your body does not think so," Ayla said accusingly.

Picard's face clouded, and then he smiled. "No, you're right. I was born and grew up not too far from here, and I suppose I was thinking of that as I spoke. But I am telling you the truth – I no longer live anywhere near here, but much farther away than you can understand."

Ayla looked at him. He was telling the truth. So this explained his ability to speak Zelandonii! He must have moved away as young child, and have been rusty when he tried to speak it again. But where had he gone to acquire such magic? Was there some place where the study of the Mother and the mystical realms of the spirits was far more advanced than she could imagine? Like all people of her time, Ayla believed that each living thing, indeed each object, possessed a spirit, a life-force of its own. For the Zelandonii, and for other groups of modern humans at the time, the over-arcing symbol of this pantheistic animist belief system was the Mother, the creator of life, whose spirit was shared among every living and non-living thing of this Earth, but although Ayla had integrated the beliefs of the Others into her own personal religious worldview, the totemic spirits of Clan beliefs still played a greater role in her spirituality than most of the teachings of the Others.

"Why have you come?" she said quietly, almost in a whisper. Was she about to be offered a chance to Serve the Mother in this far-off land and learn this most powerful of all magics?

"We…" Picard stopped, confused by the hope in the young woman's face. What did she want from them? There was nothing he could give her, and even if he had been free to do so, power cells would run down, knowledge would be lost without writing, and it would be meaningless.

He was saved from having to worry about it longer when the hide door opened and a blond man strode in, ducking under the lintel. He was remarkably tall: Picard estimated him at nearly two metres, and he towered over the much shorter Starfleet captain. Seeing the two strangers, he stopped, taken aback, and then, after a questioning glance at Ayla, extended his hands.

Smiling, Picard took them, and Jondalar made his formal introduction.

"Greetings in the name of the Mother. I am Jondalar, mated to Ayla, son of Marthona, brother of Joharran, born to the hearth of Dalanar, Leader of the Lanzadonii. In the name of Doni, the Great Earth Mother, I welcome you."

"Greetings Jondalar, Ayla's mate and Marthona's son," Picard said formally. "I am Jean-Luc Picard, son of Yvette and Maurice Picard, Captain of the Enterprise, born in the village of La Barre." Picard felt safe giving his title, knowing that the terms would be nothing more than more names to these people, and feeling that leaving out his rank and lineage would simply cause more questions.

Ayla listened to his introduction with great interest. He used the word son in relation to his mother's mate! He had given the name of the man of his hearth, not in relation to his mother, but in relation to himself! Perhaps his people shared her ideas on the role of the man in creating children. She resolved to talk to him as soon as possible about this.

"And your companion?" Jondalar was asking.

"This is Data, son of Juliana and Noonien Soong, Second in command of the Enterprise, father of Lal." Picard felt no compunction whatsoever about referring to Dr Noonien Soong and his wife as Data's parents for, in everything that mattered, they were.

"In the name of Doni, you are both most welcome. What brings two such important people such a long distance?"

Picard and Data exchanged looks, then Picard shrugged slightly, and decided that something not too far from the truth would be best.

"We have heard about remarkable caves of the area, and wished to see them for ourselves," he said, somewhat lamely.

Jondalar and Ayla both gasped.

"Do you mean… Doni's Deep?" Ayla asked, her eyes wide. She well remembered her first trip into that dark and sacred womb of the earth. How the solid stone walls had seemed to turn translucent, showing her soft black realms of infinite depth that had seemed to draw her in, embrace her…capture her. She shuddered, and was glad for the tall comforting presence of her mate beside her. Her hand stole into his, taking comfort in the familiar callused palm.

"The paintings there are not for casual eyes," came a new voice. Ayla turned, and saw the broad figure of Zelandoni of the Ninth Cave, First Among Those Who Serve, squeezing through the doorframe.

"They're painted?" Picard said, suddenly excited. This was an incredible stroke of fortune. Doni's Deep…? What cave systems around here were painted this long ago? Chauvet? Font de Gaume? Some other system not yet discovered? But before he had time to speculate further, he realised Ayla was speaking to him, introducing the newcomer.

"Sorry, I was just a bit carried away. So this is Zelandoni, your High Shamaness? I am honoured to meet you, Zelandoni," he said. "I am Jean-Luc Picard, leader of the Enterprise."

Zelandoni looked at the older man closely, suspicion in her eyes. But her mouth smiled in welcome as she extended her hands to his.

"Welcome, Picard of Enterprise. You have heard of our sacred art?"

Picard nodded. "Stories of the great artists of this area have spread far and wide," he said.

"And is your interest purely curiosity?" Zelandoni said, searching his face.

"I am…a student of such things," Picard said.

Ayla's eyes opened wide. Was this man also One Who Serves? Of course! And Data must be his acolyte! It made sense now, that they would be travelling alone, on a Journey of spiritual exploration. No doubt this was why they had come to the Zelandonii, if indeed rumours of the profoundly spiritual representations of Doni's Deep, womb of the Earth Mother, had reached them.

"Picard of Enterprise, as One Who Serves you are welcome here. In order that we may show you the proper respect, what is your standing among Those Who Serve?"

Picard thought quickly. As captain of the Federation flagship, he was theoretically _prima inter pares_, first among equals, between all Starfleet captains, but above him were still the admirals and civilian authorities of the vast and sprawling Federation.

"I am perhaps first among the leaders of my rank, but above me are the highest rank of Those Who Serve, and above them are the leaders of our people, the Federation."

The term was not familiar to Zelandoni. It implied a collective, much like the Zelandonii, but there was something strange about its use – as if it were far more than just one tribe, however large. But she let it pass for the moment. The season was well advanced, and she expected the two men would want to winter with them. She was glad that Ayla had found them, and brought them to the Ninth Cave. Such interesting visitors would definitely enhance their standing among the other caves.

"Well, Picard, First-of-the-Second, perhaps we shall see about arranging a visit to the Womb of the Mother later on."

"Zelandoni," Ayla interjected, "these men have great healing gifts, the most powerful magic I have ever seen. Perhaps if we showed them Doni's Deep, they could be persuaded to share their skills with us."

Picard groaned inside. The young woman was desperate to learn their secrets, and he could hardly blame her. But even if the timeline and the Prime Directive were not issues, they simply could not use Starfleet technology in the Palaeolithic, not for longer than a few weeks. Everything in his world depended on the ready availability of almost limitless energy, but here the only motive power was human strength. How could he avoid disappointing her?

"Captain," Data said, interrupting his thoughts. "You should not be spelunking for at least two or three days. Your bones need more time to fully fuse."

"Agreed, Mr Data. A few days here shouldn't hurt anyway."

"Bones? What do they mean?" Zelandoni asked, turning to Ayla.

The blonde girl's beautiful face was lit up with excitement. "Picard's acolyte, the man named Data, mended a broken leg with a few passes of a sacred wand," she said. "In just a few breaths Picard was able to stand upright!"

"How is this possible?" Zelandoni asked. If true – and she knew Ayla of all people would not misdiagnose a broken leg – this would be a truly miraculous gift. If she could obtain it, somehow….

"It is true, Zelandoni," said Data. "However its power is limited to a few uses, and we have no spares."

_Thank you Mr Data_, Picard thought. A neat solution, and one that had the advantage of being completely true.

Ayla was looking at Data with curiosity. Normally she was able to tell if someone was telling the truth or not by their body language, but with this man it was impossible: he had no body language at all. Not the slightest tick or blink, no pupil dilation, no increased respiration, nothing at all to guide her. And his eyes were the most unusual shade of yellow, like no eyes she had ever seen before. His skin, pale and with a slight sheen, was also disturbing. However she would not dream of commenting on how unusual he looked – she knew how much she hated it when the Clan were called ugly and non-human, when her own son had been called deformed. Ayla was determined to accept all people for what they were like on the inside, not the outside. It disturbed her that there were so many who weren't, but since Picard's people had allowed Data to become an acolyte, they clearly shared her sensibilities, and that made her warm to them.

Thus lost in thought, she was suddenly jolted back to reality by a baby's cry.

"Jonayla! She needs feeding!" Ayla dashed into the sleeping area of their home and returned in a few moments, bare from the waist up and with a suckling baby at one breast. She would not have nursed the child outside, but in her own hearth she was free to do what she wanted, and she did not want to miss a moment of the conversation with the strangers.

Jondalar smiled as he saw the baby snuggle up against his mother. If what Ayla said was true then she was, literally, half his as well. Looking at her deep blue eyes, so like his own, he hoped it was true. But then even if it was just spirits, then surely at least it was an equal mix of the mother's spirit and her mate's, was it not?

"Talking of food," he said cheekily, "did you get any for us?"

Ayla laughed. She had completely forgotten about the rabbits she had captured. "Over there, on the floor, in that carry-bag. Two plump rabbits, rich with winter fat."

"Snow white, too," Jondalar murmured in approval as he pulled them out. "These skins are just what I was looking for – Laranoda of the Seventh Cave has some of the finest-grained flint I've seen, and it would make superb knives."

"I want at least one skin for Jonayla, though," Ayla said, shifting the baby to her other breast.

Picard watched Jondalar gleefully holding up the slaughtered carcasses, and felt a slight queasiness in his stomach. For him, it had been centuries since humans killed living animals for food, and he found the entire concept rather disturbing.

"I believe Lieutenant Worf would appreciate this more than you, Captain," Data said quietly.

"I believe you are right, Commander Data," Picard replied. "However he would find rabbits to be rather small for his tastes."

"Who is this Worf?" Jondalar asked, looking at them curiously.

"He is the best hunter I know," Picard said truthfully. "His people pride themselves on their hunting prowess."

"A pity he is not here, then," Jondalar said. "It is nearly mammoth season – sometimes, if we are lucky, a herd of mammoths will pass near here, which means enough meat for an entire Cave."

"I know he would certainly appreciate the chance," Picard said with feeling.

"Hello Ayla," came another voice. "Zelandoni told me you had returned, with a stranger."

Picard turned to see a handsome middle-aged woman enter the dwelling.

"And this must be he – or rather, they," she added. "On behalf of the Ninth Cave, I, Marthona, mother of the leader, Joharran the hearth-brother of Jondalar, greet you in the name of the Mother, and bid you welcome."

"I greet you Marthona," Picard said, repeating the formal greeting he had given to Jondalar. Data followed suit, and after the greetings were over, Marthona, casting a quick look at Ayla, asked them what had brought them to the Zelandonii.

"Doni's Deep? That is a very powerful place," she said when she heard of their destination. "How long have you been One Who Serves, if I may ask?"

"I have been in Starfleet—" the term was unfamiliar to Marthona, but she caught something about the stars "—most of my life now," Picard said.

"And how many years are you, then?" Marthona asked, appraising him. He looked at least fifty, she thought. He was almost bald, and what little hair he had remaining was cut very short and was nearly all white.

"I am sixty-five, Marthona," Picard replied.

"Sixty-five!" Marthona did some quick counting on her fingers. That was old! Older than almost anyone she had ever heard of, a good twenty years older than herself. And yet this man was still fit and active, almost as fit as a man half his age.

"And it has been thirty-three years since I was given life," Data added. Marthona looked at him and nodded. While he looked younger than his years, thirty-three was a good age, the age of someone in the prime of life, mature and wise. Zelandoni was about that age, but if his First was still active and healthy at over sixty, then it was not surprising he was not a full Servant of the Mother.

"Marthona, Picard needs to rest," Ayla said. She had returned from settling Jonayla on her furs, and was wiping her hands on a small piece of soft leather. She had heard Jondalar's mother's distinctive voice from the other chamber, and was glad of the older woman's presence. Marthona, as former leader of the Ninth Cave, would have much influence in the question of allowing the two strangers to winter with them. Ayla quickly explained what had happened: how she had found the two men, and how Picard had had his leg healed by the powerful magic stick that the acolyte Data carried.

Marthona's eyes grew round at hearing that. She nodded. Such knowledge could be useful, and even if they couldn't utilize it at the moment, it would be sensible to make friends with these men, and establish friendly trading relations between their tribes. Perhaps that way the Zelandonii too could learn the secrets of the healing stick. She turned to Picard.

"As the former leader of the Ninth Cave, I would like to extend my personal invitation to you and your acolyte to winter with us. You must have much we can learn from you, many tales to tell. We shall look forward to your company on the long winter evenings."

"I thank you for your hospitality, Marthona," Picard replied, unsure of how exactly to proceed. He didn't want to offend them, and it would probably be a few days at least until the Enterprise was able to track them. "On behalf of myself and my companion, I welcome your offer. We do indeed have many tales to tell, and hope that you would grant us the privilege of hearing yours as well."

"In that case I suggest you start with Jondalar's tale of his great Journey, and his return with a prize beyond all treasuring," said Marthona warmly.

"This might take a while," Jondalar added. "I hope you have time."

"Well, Mr Data requires me to rest for a few days," Picard said. "So if the tale can be told in three days, then please begin."

"Better cut out the bits that repeat other bits, then," Ayla suggested, smiling to herself.

* * *

**NOTES:**

Sorry for the delay—it's a very busy time of year.

For any ST fans that don't know EC and for some reason have read this far: Iza was Ayla's adoptive mother in the Neanderthal Clan, and a healer, who taught Ayla her arts. Creb was the Mog-Ur, the spiritual healer and Wise Man. Mamut was a similar figure in the Cro Magnon tribe of mammoth hunters Ayla lived with for a while after meeting Jondalar. Doni is the Earth Mother. And an abri is a rock shelter formed by the overhang of a cliff and often containing prehistoric occupation deposits.

The "Better cut out the bits that repeat other bits, then" is a direct dig at the endless repetitions of their story in Shelters of Stone. Not to mention the Mother's Song. Made me wonder if Auel was getting paid by the word….


	4. A Lesson in Practical Archaeology

**4\. A Lesson in Practical Archaeology**

_Commanding Officer's Log, Stardate 48422.19. No word has been heard from either Captain Picard or Commander Data since they came out of warp in near-Earth orbit, bound for France. Starfleet has detected the remains of a chronodrive field above south-central France, and we suspect that the captain and the second officer have been pulled into its wake. However it will likely take several days to calculate exactly when they have been pulled to, nor is there any guarantee that we ourselves will be able to arrive at precisely the same moment in time. The engine modifications are almost complete, and as soon as they are done, I intend to take the Enterprise into Earth orbit._

"Who would dare operate an unshielded chronodrive so near to an inhabited planet?" Worf growled, drumming his fingers on the console.

Riker closed the Ship's Log and glanced behind him at the tall and powerfully-built Klingon.

"I don't know, Mr Worf. It could be anyone, any-when. That's the trouble with time travel." He sighed and rubbed his temples.

"I hate just sitting here!" Worf exclaimed. "The captain is missing, and there isn't a thing we can do about it but wait! Can't the Enterprise's sensors detect anything?" he added, ready to do something, anything. Worf couldn't abide just sitting and waiting. Unless it was when hunting. Yes, patience when hunting was good, as you waited for your prey to come closer and closer, unsuspecting, while you focused your mind and gathered your energies. But this was unbearable. It was frustrating, without no clear prey, and Worf hated being frustrated.

"Out here at the Utopia Planitia yards of Mars, we're too far away to be of any use," Riker said. "The Earth is on the other side of the Sun, and besides, the Federation has far more powerful sensors, based on Earth itself. There's nothing we can do to assist."

"Perhaps we could try, anyway," Troi interjected. "It would give the officers some goal, at least. I can sense they are all – including you, Will – restless and impatient."

"We're not going anywhere with the dilithium chamber in about a thousand pieces over the floor of Main Engineering," LaForge said, turning away from the engineering panel where he had been running some tests. "It'll take days just to reassemble it. Dr Brahms and I have almost finished our modifications though."

"What exactly are you trying to do?" Worf asked, rather more curtly than he intended.

LaForge let it slide, knowing he was only worried about his captain. "Dr Brahms thinks she can increase the engine output efficiency ratio by up to five percent."

"Five percent? Is that all? For five percent, we sit here and let the captain face unknown perils?"

"Five percent more power, applied asymptotically, would have enabled us to outrun the Borg four years ago," LaForge said quietly, his meaning clear.

Worf's face darkened. To be captured by the enemy and made to be their puppet was a great disgrace, but his captain's strength had been such that even in his darkest hour he could still summon up the power to defeat his enemies. In Worf's opinion, it had been one of Picard's finest moments, but he knew how it had mentally and emotionally scarred his captain. Perhaps it was a battle that need not have been fought.

"Very well. We shall wait," the Klingon grunted.

"Anyway, Starfleet will probably have sent a rescue team in by the time we're finished," LaForge said, returning to his console.

Worf grimaced again. That would be an intolerable humiliation, he knew. To sit idly by and do nothing while his commanding officer was rescued by others!

"Don't worry Worf," Riker said, guessing how the proud warrior felt about it. "I intend to rescue the captain myself, don't worry."

"Remember, it doesn't matter how long it takes us to get the Enterprise ship-shape," LaForge said, his hands flying over the engineering console controls. "Since we're dealing with time travel, we should theoretically be able to retrieve the captain and Commander Data just moments after they arrive. With luck, we could probably catch them even before they land."

* * *

"What an incredible journey," Picard breathed. To have walked across almost the entire sub-continent of Europe without roads or maps was even more astounding, in its way, than the exploration missions of the Enterprise. He looked at Ayla and Jondalar with new-found respect, and not a little awe.

"How far have you come on your Journey here, Picard?" Ayla asked.

"Please, call me Jean-Luc," Picard said while he thought of a plausible answer.

"What is Jonluk?" Ayla asked. She had noticed earlier how he had given two names, and had wondered at that.

"It is my personal name," Picard replied. "'Picard' is the name of my family, my, uh, immediate clan."

"Oh, so you are Jean-Luc of the Picard, Leader of the Enterprise, First-of-the-Second-Ranked among Those Who Serve?"

"More or less," Picard smiled, wondering Admiral Nechayev would react to such an introduction.

"So how far have stories of Doni's Deep spread far among your people?" Ayla asked, getting back to the reason for their guests' journey.

"Not that far," Picard admitted. "Only those that study such things really know about them, though many know of them. But the art of your people is much respected."

Ayla smiled, and looked at her mate. The others had left them, having heard the tale before, so she and Jondalar were alone with the strangers.

"I did not realise they were so famous," the tall man said, his brow furrowing. "Do you not have similar in your own homeland?"

"Not like this," Picard said. He looked around at the small roofless shelter, cramped and chaotic by his standards, but far above anything he had ever expected from the ice age. Nor was it as cold as he would have imagined. Data's estimate of some thirty thousand years into the past would probably put them in the middle of the Wurm interstadial, he realised. Temperatures were lower than Earth in the 24th century, but still rather higher than the peaks of glaciation. His knowledge of paleobiology was limited, but from what he knew of similar climates on other planets, there were probably steppes and prairies teeming with game, allowing enough leisure time to develop the art and culture that even after thirty millennia still had the power to awe and humble those that were lucky enough to see it. He too wanted to see it, very badly. But there was something else that, he realised awkwardly, he needed to attend to even more badly.

"Uh, Ayla," he began. The blonde woman looked at him expectantly, her eyes searching his face. She smiled, and patted him on the arm.

"Jondalar will show you. Are you sure you can walk there?"

Picard nodded. "If it's not too far."

"Not far at all," Ayla said, and prodded Jondalar in the ribs. "Take Jean-Luc to the toilet trenches."

Jondalar's eyes opened in realisation, and he shook his head in disbelief at his beautiful and intelligent mate's ability to read body language.

"Come, Jean-Luc," he said, and stood up. Picard eased himself off the sleeping furs, waving away Data and Jondalar's assistance, and stood up. His leg throbbed, but that was normal for just after surgery. He was grateful that he hadn't had to rely on Ayla entirely, skilled as she no doubt was. Even a few hundred years before his birth healing a broken leg had taken weeks. And here, now, without antiseptics or anaesthesia? He shuddered at the idea.

Jondalar led Picard out of the abri, to the eastern edge of the terrace, where a path ran uphill. When the trail split they took the right path, and in a few moments Picard's nose began to detect the unmistakable signs that they were nearing the right place.

"We just dusted it last full moon," Jondalar said proudly.

"Dusted?"

"With the dust from the cave. We heat it and spread it over, and it stops most of the smell," he explained.

Picard raised an eyebrow. Heated limestone dust – quicklime – was known for its deodorizing properties, so perhaps it was logical that even back in this time people would make use of it. It was a fairly common find at archaeological sites around the Alpha quadrant, and almost always denoted the areas for ablutions and waste extraction. But he had never heard of its use at such an early stage before.

"I'll wait here," Jondalar said, motioning Picard on. Ablutions were something that was always done in as much privacy as possible, because of the connections with uncleanliness and impurity. Impurity could anger the Mother, whose creations and whose world were all the essence of purity. He stood there, idly stripping the leaves off a branch, while Picard ventured into the toilet area. Soon the older man was back, wiping his hands carefully on a clump of dried moss, and looking quite pleased with himself for no reason Jondalar could figure.

"I haven't done that for years," Picard grinned, tossing away the moss. "And certainly never in such a well-organised place."

"Done what in years?" Jondalar asked, despite himself.

"Oh, ah." Picard looked embarrassed. "We have a slightly different set-up where I come from," he said quickly, and changed the subject. "I really am most grateful for your hospitality," he said as the two of them walked slowly back. "I certainly would not want to have to spend the night out on the grasslands."

"No, winter is approaching," the taller man said seriously. "Winter is the great cleanser, preparing the land for when spring comes and the earth is renewed, when Doni's bounty fills the world."

"What do you do all winter?" Picard asked, wondering if they still were able to hunt, or if they were confined to their caves the entire time.

"There is a great deal to do," Jondalar said. "I find it a good time to make many new blades, which we can trade at the Summer Gathering."

"Blades?! Of flint?" Picard asked excitedly.

His companion looked at him curiously. "Of course of flint," he said. "But some of bone and even wood."

"I would very much like to see some of your work," Picard said. In addition to the sheer curiosity value, he was also hopeful that its style might provide him with a clue as to the exact time period he was in. He suspected Aurignacian from the time period alone, but the culture seemed more advanced than he would have suspected for that; almost Gravettian in many ways. One of the great debates among archaeologists was how ice-age culture evolved: was it was through slow experimentation alone, or through trade and cultural contacts, or through being supplanted by invading peoples? He was also interested in the techniques used: while modern archaeology was able to make very educated guesses, there were still gaps. But most importantly of all, the one thing that was never able to be known from the silent stone, was the cultural significance of tools or art. Picard was determined to make the most of the opportunity to learn what had eluded generations of academics before him. It was already obvious that these people were far more sophisticated than many archaeologists were willing to give them credit for.

* * *

"If you wish also to use the trenches," Ayla commented to Data as she busied herself with the evening meal, "feel free to let me know."

"That is all right, Ayla," Data said smoothly. "I do not require them."

She looked up at him, mildly puzzled by his tone. It was so smooth, so precise, so controlled. There was none of the slight uncertainty, the brief fluctuations, of most talk. Combined with the unusual pallor of his skin and his golden eyes, it made her wonder just what sort of people he was from.

"Is there some way in which I can assist you?" Data was asking as she gazed at him.

"Do you know how to use firestones?" she asked, pointing to the hearth and handing him the flint and iron pyrite.

Data's eyes flickered briefly, his head giving an almost imperceptible jerk to the right as he accessed his memory files.

"Yes."

"If you could start the fire – there is wood piled by the door – then I will be able to prepare the rabbit." She held up one of the animals she had killed that morning. It was already skinned and gutted, and Ayla was in the process of dismembering it ready for the pot.

"The captain and I have our own food," Data said. "You do not need to cook for us."

"Please, we would be honoured if you would share our meal," Ayla said. "Besides, travelling rations are not really the most appetizing of foods, are they?"

"I have indeed heard many people voice similar sentiments," Data said truthfully as he carefully lined up the stones and struck them together at a precisely-calculated angle. A large spark flew off and landed in the centre of the dry moss tinder. The android carefully added small twigs and shavings, and then larger pieces of timber. Soon the fire was roaring away, and Ayla placed a rawhide pot full of water over it, suspended just above the flames.

At that moment the door-hide was thrown open, and Picard and Jondalar stepped in. Jondalar immediately went to his stores, and took out a soft hide bundle, which he unwrapped carefully. Picard gasped. A long thin blade lay amongst the folds, its delicately-scalloped edges translucently thin.

"Go ahead, pick it up," Jondalar grinned. Picard reached out and took the blade in his hands, holding it against the fire so that the light dappled through the edges. "Light, isn't it?"

Picard nodded, lost for words. He had never seen a more magnificent flint blade – the ones in museums had been buried for tens of millennia, their edges long dulled; lifeless shadows of the living stone. But this – this was different. The blade he held was leaf-shaped, swelling out from a rounded base, with a thicker ridge running down its length that served as a backbone, giving it strength and rigidity. Picard was sure it was closer in style to the Gravettian than the Aurignacian, and indeed showed some signs of the high artisanship of the Solutrean, one of the last stages of the Palaeolithic. This was clearly no ordinary blade for butchering animals.

"Why do you make such beautiful knives?" Picard asked, running his finger carefully along the blade. It was extremely sharp – the cutting edge was just a single molecule thick.

"We make these as symbols to offer the Mother," Jondalar told him. "These are used with the symbolic animals in Doni's Deep to pray for good hunting and to calm the souls of the animals we eat."

"You can also trade them for many useful things," Ayla added prosaically. Men! Even Those That Serve were not above the typical male fascination with blades and hunting. But there was something more than that in Picard's eyes, she realised as she watched him admire the flint. It was almost like the look in Ranec's eyes when he would gaze at a fine carving – the appreciation was aesthetic, rather than practical. Ayla had little knowledge and ability in that direction, she knew. Her wooden bowls were simple and practical, the only concession to beauty being the way they were shaped to bring out the grain. She was able to copy ideas she had seen elsewhere and apply them, but the skills to breathe life into cold inanimate matter like Ranec, or even Jondalar, were not ones she had either been born with or had needed to learn. In the often harsh environment of the ice age, where all needed to work, and practicality meant survival, art for art's sake was a luxury good.

* * *

**NOTES:**

"Applied asymptotically" is my wee shout-out to "Where No One Has Gone Before," when Kosinski was spouting technobabble about his fancy equations.

The mention of the toilets is partially as Auel is always doing it, and partially as Trek is never doing it: we never hear about the Captain's Head.

Aurignacian, Gravettian, and Solutrean, as you might have guessed, are periods of the Upper Paleolithic. The Solutrean represents some of the finest flint-knapping ever.

Ranec was the artistic member of the Mammoth Hunter tribe Ayla and Jondalar lived with for a time.


	5. Colours of the Past

**5\. Colours of the Past**

Ayla put a double handful of small onions and roots into the pot, along with the rest of the carcass, and started threading the rabbit joints on wooden skewers, which she stuck in the earth around the fire to slowly barbeque. She had rubbed dried herbs over the joints, working them into the flesh, and soon the aroma was filling the small living area. Picard looked on in interest, curious as to how cooking was managed in the Palaeolithic. He was impressed by the array of herbs available to them, and by the skin pot, which transferred the heat that would otherwise burn it through to the liquid inside it.

After a short wait, the meal was ready. Picard took a ravenous bite of the rabbit, and chewed contentedly. The meat was a bit tougher than he was used to – the animal had died in fright, its body flooded with adrenalin – but lean and dense, and full of flavour, if not quite as salty as the food he normally had.

"Cooking has always been an art in France," he said to Data, grinning as he licked the juice off his fingers.

"What is 'france'?" Ayla asked, ladling out bowls of the broth and placing one before each of her guests.

"France is what my people call this entire region," Picard said, knowing that simple names would change nothing. "All the land between the Great Sea and the mountains to the east."

"I do not think the Zelandonii have a name for the entire land," Ayla said, sipping her soup. "Each cave or tribe has its own name for its own people, but we do not name the land, for it is not ours to name."

"No, nor is it ours…" Picard trailed off. He looked at her, and felt a slight shiver run down his back. To live in a world where the control of land was not the key to wealth was something that humans had only achieved after centuries of oppression and exploitation. Even on Earth in the 24th century, while ownership of land no longer conveyed power or wealth, it was still practiced. But here, in the far-off dawn of human civilisation, a man could still wander for years across the earth, at will. Suddenly Picard knew what he had subconsciously thrilled at – here, at the very opposite end of history, was the same great unexplored vastness that he had always felt himself destined to travel, to explore. For these people, the vast untracked spaces of Palaeolithic Eurasia were as great an exploration as going to the other side of the Galaxy was for him.

"Why does Data not eat?" Ayla suddenly said, interrupting Picard's train of thought.

"I am…fasting," Data explained smoothly. "I eat only once per day, before the sun rises, and always alone."

"I understand," Ayla said, though she was a bit disappointed that the slim stranger was not able to join in their meal. She took another bite of the leg she was chewing on and licked her lips. Tonight's was a particularly successful one as well.

"I'll eat his then," Jondalar said grinning, and wolfed down the second bowl. "No sense in letting perfectly good food go to waste."

"I'll save the meat for Wolf though," Ayla said, snatching away the rest of the rabbit before Jondalar could get it.

"Hey! That's the best part!" Jondalar exclaimed, his exaggerated crestfallen expression causing Picard to burst out laughing. Some things never change, he thought. This could be a scene in his own family's houses, his brother angry at missing out on some delicacy reserved for others. The thought comforted him greatly. He finished his broth, and put the wooden bowl down on the ground.

"That was wonderful, thank you," he said.

"I am glad you liked it," Ayla replied. She took the bowl and set it aside with the other dirty items for washing later. Then she sat back on her heels and looked at the older man, not sure where to begin. She had so many questions, but she sensed a certain reluctance on his part to provide answers. She was certain he was not hostile, but she felt an undercurrent of danger, or perhaps loss, when she looked at him.

Picard caught her eye and smiled. He didn't know how long they would have to remain with these people, and knew that he and Data should leave as soon as possible. But the archaeologist in him was desperate to learn more about these people, his far-distant ancestors. Even in the 24th century, while time travel was sometimes technically possible – the infamous Kirk had done so rather more often than he should have, usually by sling-shotting his ship around the sun in order to create the hyper-parabolic arcs and super-dense graviton fields needed for chrono-particle generation – it was nevertheless highly controlled. People from the future sometimes came to the 24th century, or visited other times, but as far as Picard knew, he was the first man from his time to visit the Upper Palaeolithic of 30,000 years ago. It was an opportunity he could not bear to waste. But where to begin?

"Your clothes are very unusual, Jean-Luc," Ayla said suddenly, forestalling any of Picard's questions. "How do you get them that vivid shade of red?"

"Red?" Picard was somewhat surprised. He had not expected to be asked about the colour of his uniform. "I honestly don't know," he admitted. "Dye, I assume."

"We use some dyes here as well, from plants," Ayla said. "We have ways to produce red dyes, but I know of none that produces such a brilliant rich shade."

"In my land we sometimes used small insects for dying things red," Picard said, referring to cochineal beetles, whose dried carcasses were crushed to extract a brilliant red dye. "But I do not know if any are around here. They are found in the land to the south of the, uh, south-western mountain range."

"Which mountain range is this?" Ayla asked.

"The one that divides this land, which we call France, from a large peninsula we call the Iberian," Picard said.

"Another land? How many are there?" Ayla asked. "Do they keep going on for ever? I hear that to the west there is a great sea, and Hochaman told me there is another one far to the east, farther than I have ever been. Are there ones to the north and south as well?"

"We know of many seas," Picard said, somewhat awkwardly. How was he going to manage to avoid offending his host at best, shattering the Prime Directive at worst, with so many inevitable questions? Ayla was very curious indeed, a trait which Picard admired, but at the same time he found himself wishing she was just a little bit more incurious. Like the others of her tribe, he thought. They saw a stranger, greeted him, and accepted him. But Ayla was different – she wanted to know things.

"Mr Data can answer your questions better than I, perhaps," Picard added, hoping Data's lies would be less readily detectable. "If you don't mind, I would like to go for a walk, take a look around the area."

Ayla looked at him, puzzled. She could sense he was eager to teach her what he knew, but something was preventing him, holding him back from sharing. It must be the oaths he took as One Who Serves, she thought. But what could the duties of serving the Mother have to do with the seas and mountains? She smiled, and shook her head.

"I shall show you around myself," she said. "We can leave the questions for later."

"That would be very kind of you," Picard said, and rose.

"With your permission, Captain, I should like to accompany you. Your leg is not fully set, and there are many uneven surfaces here."

"I don't intend to go rock-climbing, don't worry," Picard said. "I just want to exercise it, work off the numbness."

"Very good, sir," Data said, and returned to his position.

Picard followed Ayla out of the dwelling. "How long have your people lived here?" he asked, looking up at the soot-blackened ceiling.

"They are not really my people," Ayla said. "I was born a long way off."

She had not covered her childhood when telling Picard of their journey, and was not willing to until she knew him better. The fact that someone as strange-looking as Data was allowed a high position in his society was some reassurance, but not enough, not yet.

"Of course – you said that Jondalar had made the journey out to you with his brother. So were you born far to the East?"

"I'm not sure where I was born," Ayla admitted. "I don't remember. But I grew up on a peninsula to the north of a large sea."

"A peninsula to the north of a large sea," Picard mused, trying to figure out where she could mean.

"The same sea that the Mother empties into," Ayla added.

"The Black Sea? Really?"

"How is it that your people have a name for this sea?" Ayla asked, shock in her voice.

"My people did a lot of trading in the great inland sea to the south," Picard said. He was annoyed at himself for having to dissemble: the plan had been to ask Ayla questions, not the reverse. "All the inland seas are connected, and they open out into the great ocean we know as the Atlantic."

"Well, yes, I was born beyond the...Black? Sea," Ayla continued. "People here say I look a bit different to them, and they can tell I am not local. You cannot?"

Picard looked at her face, with its high cheekbones, gently curving jawline, and light blue-grey eyes, and shook his head. Centuries of racial mixing had made it occasionally difficult to even tell an African from a European in his time, and the subtle distinctions between different European peoples were completely obliterated – and in his opinion had always been more idea than reality anyway.

"No, I'm sorry, I cannot. You look like everyone else, to me at least."

Ayla looked at his face, and wondered how he would fit in among the peoples she knew. Picard's nose was the most prominent part of his face, a large curving beak. His forehead sloped back, and she wondered briefly if he had any Clan blood in him. But he had no brow ridges, and his frame was slight. She gave up – she just didn't know enough people to judge.

"That's Marthona's hearth over there," she said, pointing in the appropriate direction. "And that's Zelandoni's, and that's Joharran's. Over there is Solaban and Ranakol, and this one belongs to Marona," she finished with a slight disdainful curl of the lips.

"Zelandoni is your spiritual leader, right?" Picard asked, cutting short the flow of names that meant nothing to him. "Could I speak with her, perhaps, about seeing the caves of Doni's Deep?"

"She is very protective of those caves," Ayla said seriously. "They are some of the most sacred spaces anyone knows. Not just anyone is permitted to enter, and certainly not strangers. She will want to learn your ideas and thoughts."

"They may be very different from hers," Picard admitted. "But we are, perhaps, both seekers after truth. Though our paths may differ, our goal is the same."

"Come, this is her hearth," Ayla said, and scratched lightly on the leather skin that covered the entrance. At a grunted "Enter," she pushed it aside, and beckoned to Picard to follow her.

"Welcome, stranger." The obese woman was sitting on a large stool, her bulk almost hiding it. She was stirring something over a low flame that, whatever it was, was clearly not food by the stench it gave off.

"Pardon the mess," Zelandoni said as she motioned to the guest area. "This is just a compress for infections. It works best if you boil the leaves until they are a pulp first."

"It works faster that way," Picard surmised. "The important parts, the healing parts, are leached out and concentrated."

"Indeed, stranger," Zelandoni said, appraising him out of the corner of her eye while she pretended to be busy looking for a fresh piece of wood. He was no stranger to the healing arts, she could tell. Most people attributed the success – or failure – of her medicines to the will of Doni, and had no idea how they worked or why each ingredient mattered; how leaving out one small leaf could turn a cure into a poison, or vice-versa. Not that Zelandoni minded too much – so long as they looked to her to intercede on behalf of Doni, it didn't matter if it was her skill at medicine or her skill at interceding with The Mother that worked. Just that it worked. She poked the fire with a long green stick, and sat back.

"So. You wish to see The Deep," she said. "It is a powerful space, one that someone untrained in the ways of The Mother cannot enter – for their own sake."

"I am prepared," Picard said. "You may test me, if you like."

"Oh, there will be no tests, Picard," Zelandoni said. "I would not presume to test your skill. But I am less certain of you yourself," she added.

"I understand. You wish to trust me, but trust is not always an easy thing. Especially between two peoples who have never met before."

"No. It is not," Zelandoni said. "However…at the time when the moon hides its light there will be a ceremony in Doni's Deep that you might be allowed to attend. That is in, um, five days," she said, surreptitiously counting on her fingers. She hoped she was right – it was sometimes hard to keep track. She had marking sticks, similar to the one Ayla had used in her cave when she had been banished, but sometimes she forgot to mark them. Not that it had ever appeared to matter if she was off by a day or two. No one seemed to notice, and that was the important thing.

"Five days…." For once, Picard was hoping he wouldn't be rescued too soon. The chance to witness an authentic Palaeolithic cave ritual was not one likely to come again. This was a priceless opportunity. What better way to understand the social and cultural context of the art of a people than to see how they responded to it?

"Those are strange clothes you wear, Picard," Zelandoni said, interrupting his thoughts.

Picard glanced down at his simple two-piece red-and-black Starfleet uniform. He grimaced slightly: he wished he was wearing something a little less conspicuous - it was the most telling sign he did not belong. He was glad he was sitting beside Ayla rather than in front of her, as that way his attempts to uphold the Prime Directive would not be so noticeable. But he would volunteer nothing, he decided. So he remained quiet, and just looked at the fire.

Zelandoni marked his obvious disquiet, and his reluctance to tell her everything, but she was not offended by it. We all have our secrets, she thought, and perhaps the precise meaning of the bold colours is only to be revealed to initiates. After all, he and his acolyte are wearing exactly the same style, differing only in colour.

"Does red mean you are the leader?" the large woman asked, after considering the issue for a few moments.

Picard looked up, surprised at her perspicacity.

"You are in red and black, your acolyte is in yellow and black – presumably there is a reason," Zelandoni said, wondering how far she could draw him out. The game had begun: the game of trust and power – whoever could gain the most power and the most trust would win. It was a game the First was very good at. It was why she was the First.

"Yes, the colours have meaning," Picard admitted. "Red is indeed the colour of leadership, but yellow does not mean acolyte. Instead, it means one who works with, uh, the tools and devices we use. And blue is the colour of the healers and those who study the natural world."

Zelandoni arched an eyebrow. This use of colour for dividing rituals of serving The Mother was new to her. She didn't understand the basis for it, and was reluctant to ask directly.

"I think I see," Ayla said. "It is like the way different colours are used in the cave paintings to mean different aspects of The Mother." She had heard all about that from Jonokol, the young artist who was busy communing with the white-walled caverns she had found the previous year.

Zelandoni's right eyebrow flickered up briefly in an indication of scepticism, but she kept quiet. Better to let Ayla ask the questions and make the conclusions, she decided. It will be a good test for her. And it doesn't matter as much if she's wrong.

"Yes, in a way. How are colours used in your world?" Picard asked, eager to find a topic he could ask about.

"You perhaps should ask Jonokol for details," Ayla said. "He only told me once, and I'm not sure I can remember them all. Black is the colour of the past, of the known, as it is all colours together. When everything, the future, the present, is mixed and joined, we have the past. White is for the future, for that which we do not know but the Mother does, as white is the colour that accepts other colours without change, and is nothing, so it represents possibilities. If we wish to spiritually see a herd of bison, then the bison are painted in white. Then, once they have been seen, but before the hunt, they are over-painted in ochre, the colour of the earth and the Mother. Then after the hunt, to give thanks to the spirit of the bison, and to the Mother that gave it life, we use red. Red is the colour of life, for it is the colour of blood. Symbolically, red and white mean life, as they are the potential for living. And red and black mean death, as they are the was-living. There are also many different shadings that can be used, especially of ochre and red. And of course when we do not need to invoke the Mother, the animals are sometimes painted in real colours."

"Fascinating," Picard murmured. "How are the rituals related?"

"Sorry to interrupt," Zelandoni said cheerfully. "Ayla, could you take this to Salova? I'm not as agile as I once was," she added to Picard, indicating her considerable bulk with a wry smile.

"Of course, Zelandoni," Ayla said, taking the pot of stewed leaves. Picard got up to follow his hostess. After they had gone, Zelandoni turned back to her fire, her smile gone. She didn't want Picard knowing too much about the rituals, not just yet. Despite what she had said, she had every intention of testing him. But it was important that he not know he was being tested.

* * *

"Commander, incoming call from Starfleet."

"Put it on main viewer," Riker ordered. "About time, too," he muttered under his breath.

The starfield on the viewscreen faded out and was replaced by the head of the Vulcan Head of Starfleet Temporal Operations, Admiral Borat.

"Greeting, Admiral," Riker said, standing up.

"Commander, we have succeeded in locating Captain Picard and Lieutenant Commander Data," the Vulcan began without preliminaries. "The chronowarp vortex was an exceedingly strong one, which assisted our investigations considerably. It was very easy to trace, and we have not only a firm lock on the time, to within seven significant figures, but also the probable area."

"And?"

"Would you like me to take you through the calculations, Commander? They are really quite fascinating. We have seldom had such a strong and unambiguous path: it is almost a textbook case. I believe that even you would have little problem in following the basic mathematical concepts."

Riker took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the typical Vulcan insensitivity to emotions and feelings.

"Not at this time, thank you Admiral. Could you just give us the results?"

Borat looked somewhat disappointed, but complied.

"Certainly, Commander. Briefly, the x-epsilon chrono-dimensional axis was found to extend on a near-constant sigma-theta radial, intersecting the q-alpha continuum line at precisely negative-32,012,919.0538291," Borat finished, looking quite pleased with himself.

"Could you perhaps express that without hyper-mathematics?" Riker asked, unwilling to appear a fool, but sure the Vulcan was toying with him.

"Of course Commander. I apologise. I should have remembered humans are not as adept at certain mental functions as we Vulcans. Essentially, Captain Picard and Lieutenant Commander Data re-entered normal space-time on Stardate negative-32,012,919. In other words, in October of 29691 BC by the old Earth calendar. 32,061 standard Earth years ago."

"Thirty thousand years in the past!?" Riker sat down heavily. Thirty millennia! How could they go after them with such a vast time difference?

"And twenty-six point seven light years away," Borat helpfully added. "The distance travelled by the solar system in that time."

"Thank you, Admiral. It was good of you to contact me directly," Riker said.

"Not at all, Commander. I know how humans value personal relations, so am sure Captain Picard is probably quite important to you. Live long and prosper. Borat out."

The viewscreen switched back to its default starfield, and Riker passed a hand over his beard.

"How are you feeling, Will?" Troi asked, a look of concern on her face.

"Ill," Riker replied, meeting her gaze unhappily. "How are we going to get thirty thousand years into the past?"

"Didn't Captain Kirk use the sun to slingshot around once or twice?" Troi asked.

"Yes, but that was only a few hundred years," Riker replied. "We need to go a hundred times farther into the past. A slingshot around the sun won't work. I don't know how we can do it though." He stood up, and addressed the conn. "Assemble the senior staff in the Observation Lounge."

* * *

**NOTES:**

I did try and research the significance of colours in cave art, but found nothing. So I made that all up.

I added the bit about the Earth moving (the distance is accurate, btw, based on the 250km/s that the solar system moves) as a deliberate dig at all those time-travel SF stories that ignore space as well as time.

And yes, Admiral Borat's 'treknobabble' is a definite parody of such. There's more to come, as it's fun to write, but I always give translations! A lot of the treknobabble, esp to come, is lifted more or less verbatim from things like Wikipedia articles on advanced mathematics, so it uses real words and concepts, just very very badly.

For non-EC fans, assuming any read this: Ayla and Marona got off to a bad start, with Marona being jealous of Ayla and Jondalar's attraction to Ayla.


	6. Stone Walls

**6\. Stone Walls**

"This is Salova's hut," Ayla said as she scratched on the stiff leather hide that served as a simple door. They entered, and at the sight of them the young woman inside jumped up, her face full of expectation.

"Have you…?" she asked.

"Yes, Salova, this is the poultice. Apply it to Rushemar's wound three times a day, and leave it each time until the poultice is dried up. Keep the rest of it covered."

"Thank you! And thank Zelandoni as well. May the Mother watch over you," the young woman said as she took the pot and knelt by the side of a bed-platform. Ayla watched her as she gently uncovered the prostrate form of her mate, who had suffered a nasty goring on the latest hunt. The leg was healing nicely, but it was still infected, and the poultice Zelandoni had brewed would draw out the evil spirits that caused the white pus, helping to heal it.

Picard winced despite himself at the sight of the angry wound on the man's thigh. It was a long raw gash, and he was worried at the state of infection. But he kept silent, not offering to help, and was relieved that Ayla didn't turn to him for the use of his instruments. This was obviously a common and easily-treated injury among an active outdoor people, and he breathed easier as he saw the studied calm in Ayla's face. There was concern there, but not worry, and he was sure the man would be fine.

"How often do accidents like that happen?" he asked as they left the hut.

"Not that often," Ayla replied. "Hunts don't usually result in serious injury, but every so often something goes wrong. An animal doesn't go where it is herded, or a hunter gets in too close to deliver the final blow. Don't people hunt where you are?" she added, laughing.

"I am not a healer or a hunter," Picard said truthfully. "But yes, sometimes we have some very serious injuries, which test even our powers." He thought of his artificial heart, the souvenir of a long-ago encounter with an angry Nausicaan, and smiled wryly as he wondered what Ayla would make of it. "How many people live here?" he added, looking around at the forty or so huts scattered under the vast shelter of stone.

"The Ninth Cave has about two hundred people," Ayla said. "But there are five other Caves along the river. Perhaps eight hundred people all together. It's a lot for one area, and sometimes there isn't quite enough food for us all."

"What do you do then?" he asked.

"We trade," she said. "Or send hunting parties out on long-range missions that last up to an entire moon. But because there are so many people, there are always caves with a little more food than others, that can share in lean times, and there are always strong hunters available."

"Life sounds good."

"It is," Ayla said simply. "This is the richest and most fertile area I have lived in. I don't know what more people could want for. So we are content."

"I can imagine," Picard said as they came out of the shelter and he looked along the riverbank, seeing the people working and chatting and laughing, children running and playing games. Nearby, a group of men were comparing flint axeheads, and beyond them three women were working on a deer hide stretched on a drying frame. He could smell meals cooking, and over by the river some laughing children were playing with sticks, pretending to be hunters. The sun was dipping low, and the narrow valley was bathed in a rich warm glow. He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out again. "I can very well imagine," he said softly.

* * *

"So, any thoughts?" Riker looked around the room. Worf, La Forge, Dr Crusher, Counsellor Troi, and himself. It seemed very empty without the captain or Data, he thought. Even with the added presence of Dr Leah Brahms, the room seemed lacking in vitality. He was reminded of the time the captain had been kidnapped by the Borg, when Admiral Hanson had promoted him to Acting Captain in the same room. He never forgot the Admiral's chilling eulogy for Picard, his recount of Picard's determination and drive in the Academy marathon decades ago, and how the captain would never, never give up. "He is a casualty of war," Hanson had said. But they had proved him wrong: Picard was not the only stubborn one on the Enterprise. Riker was just as tenacious, and if there was even the remotest chance of rescuing his captain, he would take it.

"I'll be honest with you, commander," La Forge began, after looking around the room. "It's not looking good. To get enough speed to slingshot around the sun to go back thirty millennia is… well, faster than the Enterprise can fly. Sorry commander, but that's how it is."

"What about the new engine upgrades?" Riker asked. "Can they give us the extra speed?"

"I'm afraid not, commander. They're designed more for maximum sustainable speed rather than short sprints. We could perhaps push out a bit more at the top end, but not enough, I'm afraid."

"Any other ideas?" Riker looked out over the table. No one looked back at him.

"Commander Riker," Brahms said. "Might I ask you something?"

"By all means, doctor," Riker said.

"Have you asked Starfleet on Earth what their solution is?"

"Not yet," Riker admitted. "I was hoping not to have to deal with Admiral Nechayev."

"Well, are you aware that Starfleet possesses a Temporal Displacement Drive? Perhaps you could ask to borrow it."

"Could one be fitted to the Enterprise?" Riker asked.

"No problem," La Forge said. "I've seen the schematics of one, and although the workings were classified, the dimensions and power hookups are fully compatible with Galaxy-class starships."

"The only problem might be power consumption," Brahms said. "A Galaxy-class starship puts out nearly thirteen billion gigawatts of power, but temporal displacement power requirements are tricky. The affine transformation of the diagonalizable matrix requires a similarity transformation in which the eigenvalue is not equal to normal integers. The subspace translation of the vector space manifold is a co-set of linear subspace, which, applied to a homothetic transformation, means that the similitude ratio is perilously close to one," she finished.

"Good…" Riker said slowly. "What do you think about that, Geordi?"

"I don't know about you," Troi interrupted, "but that could have been in Classical Vulcan for all the sense it made."

"I agree," Crusher said. "We're not all experts in trans-dimensional engineering."

"My apologies, Doctor," Brahms said. "However I felt it necessary to be accurate rather than simplistic."

"What she was saying, doctor," La Forge translated, "is just that the Enterprise might barely have enough power to use one over such a great distance, but we'd have to get extremely close to warp ten – infinite speed. So there are two problems. One is that the Enterprise simply can't get that fast slingshotting around the sun. And another is that I don't know how well built these things are, and from a more practical point of view, it may well not be able to take the energy input."

"So we're back where started? Nowhere?" Worf growled.

"Not at all, Mr Worf," Riker said. "I'm going to contact Starfleet. Maybe they can think of a way around this mess. Dismissed."

* * *

"Commander Riker, I quite understand your desire to rescue your captain, but you are simply not the most qualified person for the job." The unsmiling face of Fleet Admiral Alynna Nechayev stared back larger than life at Riker from the giant viewscreen. "This is a job far better left to the experts in chrono-technology on Earth. We have two liaison officers from the 29th century on staff at all times to deal with precisely such situations."

"With all due respect, Admiral," Riker said, trying to keep at least some respect in his voice, "it is the duty of any serving officer to undertake the search for his – or her – superior officer. The Enterprise will be ready to resume full operational status within a day or two. All we need is a temporal displacement drive."

"Commander, this is not a matter for discussion. There are people here far more suited for such operations and it is they who will be sent. I will not authorise the installation of a chronodrive on the Enterprise for such a mission. The Department of Temporal Investigations will be able to send out a team in approximately a month."

"A month!" Riker exploded. "You propose to leave Captain Picard and Commander Data stuck in the Stone Age for a month?"

"Not at all, Commander," Necheyev said, a slight smile playing about her face. Riker could tell she was enjoying this. "They will be able to arrive at precisely the same time Picard and Data arrive. You are in command of the Enterprise until further notice. Now there is no need to discuss the matter further. I suggest you and your crew enjoy a well-earned break. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Riker said, with an unnecessary emphasis on the 'sir'. "Riker out."

The image vanished from the screen, and Riker glowered, embarrassed at having forgotten about the time issue, or rather, embarrassed at having been made a fool of by the Admiral. "She's still not forgiven the captain for letting the colonists in the Demilitarized Zone remain. I'll bet those investigators won't arrive when she says they will either."

"The Admiral would not lie, surely?" Worf said. Deceit from a commander was unthinkable.

"She didn't promise a thing, Worf," Riker said. "Remember, she only said they could arrive at the same time. It doesn't mean they will."

"So how long do you think she'll leave the Captain down there?" Troi asked, seeking reassurance.

"She has no wish to harm the Captain," Riker said. "I should imagine no more than a couple of weeks."

"And what if the captain is dead in a couple of weeks?" Worf muttered as Riker resumed his seat in the captain's large chair.

"Then they will try again and go in earlier," Riker said. "Simple, enough, I suppose."

"I hate time travel," Worf growled, and Riker found himself in full agreement.

* * *

Jondalar sat and looked at his unusual guest, not sure what to say. The slim young man opposite him sat alertly on the sleeping platform, but remained silent. Jondalar found the silence rather un-nerving, and he rather wished Ayla was here. She was far better at dealing with strangers than he was.

"So, uh, Data," he began nervously.

"Yes, Jondalar," his guest replied smoothly and politely. "Is there something I can assist you with?"

"Uh, well…. Uh, what is it you do – do you have a trade, Data?"

"I serve in Starfleet, Jondalar," Data said.

"Yes, I, uh, know," Jondalar said. _Doni, this wasn't going at all smoothly_, he thought. It wasn't that Data was rude or intimidating at all, it was just that he gave no assistance whatsoever in the conversation. "But what do you do? Do you hunt?"

"I do not hunt," Data said.

"Uh, very well. Do you – what about knapping? Are you a flint knapper?"

"I am not," Data replied politely.

"Forgive my bluntness to a guest," Jondalar said, exasperated. "What exactly do you do then?"

"I serve in Starfleet," Data repeated.

Jondalar ran a hand through his untidy blond hair. He drummed his fingers briefly on the edge of the sleeping platform he was sitting on, and took a deep breath.

"What does that mean?" he asked eventually. "What is this thing you talk about? Could you explain? Is it something to do with serving the Mother? You talk of stars – do you study the stars?"

"In a sense, yes," Data replied. "Starfleet's mission has always been of exploration and discovery."

"So you are an explorer?"

"Yes, that is a very good description," Data agreed.

"Where have you been?" Jondalar asked, finally glad to have something concrete to discuss. And since he himself was remarkably well-travelled, he hoped they would find some common bond. He rather wished the older man, Picard, was here instead – he had shown real interest and enthusiasm in Jondalar's blades, and the tall blond man would have loved to swap stories on the finer points of knapping technique and where the best flint deposits were where Picard came from.

"I have been to many different places, far away from here," Data said.

_Oh no_, Jondalar groaned. _Not again_….

"Such as?" he prompted.

Data paused, then Jondalar thought he almost saw a slight shrug. "Mars, Vulcan, Risa, Betazed, Qonos, Bajor," he said, and stopped again.

"I do not know those places," Jondalar said. "Are they far?"

"Very far," Data said. The android looked at the man, and regretted that he could not be more open. It was a safe bet to reel off a list of names of other planets – they would mean nothing to Jondalar. But he could not risk telling him too much. Nothing that would cause him to question his world-view. The Prime Directive was very strict, and unlike humans, Data did not have the option of breaking it: his programming was absolute. Silence was the easiest option, even if it was somewhat awkward.

"What's the farthest you've ever travelled, Data?" Jondalar asked. "Have you been to the far-distant sea to the East that I have heard exists?"

"If it is the one I think you are referring to, no," Data replied. While he had been to the Pacific Coast of the United States, he had never been to the Pacific coast of Russia or the Sea of Japan before.

"What about the Great Sea to the West?"

"Yes, I know that one," Data said.

"They say that there is no shore on the other side of that sea," Jondalar said quietly. "Men who go out too far never return. No other sea is like that. The Great Sea is cursed, I believe."

"All seas have farther shores," Data said. "Some are merely farther than others."

"Perhaps," Jondalar said slowly.

"Jondalar, there you are," came a new voice.

"Joharran!" Jondalar jumped up, pleased not so much that his half-brother was here but that there was someone else to talk to. "When did you get back?"

"Just now," the older man said. "It was a good trip. We got some good flint for you, too," he added, handing his half-brother a large leather-wrapped package.

"Flint from Dalanar! Thank you!"

"It hasn't been blessed yet, though," Joharran warned. "You might want to get the First to take care of that tonight."

"Of course. I'll do that."

In all enterprises of significance, the spirits that formed the world of the Upper Palaeolithic required pacifying before their gifts could be used. When you took something from the Mother, it was only right to offer thanks, either to her or to her many manifestations. Jondalar wouldn't dream of knapping flint until he was sure he had the Mother's permission to use her body, any more than hunters would dream of killing an animal without thanking its spirit for the offering of life.

"Good afternoon, Joharran," Data said, rising to his feet to greet the newcomer. He knew who this new man was from the story of Ayla and Jondalar's journey, and greeted him with the deference due a leader.

"Uh, greetings," Joharran said, confused. He did not recognise the man, and was puzzled by his appearance.

Jondalar quickly took care of the introductions, and Joharran smiled. "You are of course welcome to stay with us as long as like. Winters can be dull at times without new friends to share stories with. I hope you have plenty."

"Tens of millions," Data said, but the two men just blinked. A million was not something they had ever heard of. But they gathered it was a great deal, and Jondalar grinned.

"Perhaps I won't have to recount the story of our Journey so much," he said.

"I'd feel sorry for you, son of my mother," Joharran said, "if I didn't know how much you loved being the centre of attention. But we are neglecting our guest," he said, turning to Data.

"Guests," Jondalar corrected him.

"Two visitors? Twice as good!" Joharran said. "Where is the other?"

"Out talking to Ayla," Jondalar said. "I think they went to see Zelandoni. Picard, our other guest, is One Who Serves, so I imagine that's where they would have gone. He wants to see Doni's Deep."

"He does, does he? Where is he from?"

"Not too sure exactly where," Jondalar admitted. "But he was born not too far from here apparently."

"Even better – a long-lost cousin! We shall have a feast tonight, Jondalar, to welcome our guests. What say you?"

"Have I ever refused a feast?" the taller man grinned.

"Not since you were sick with that stomach illness when you were seven," Joharran said. "I shall make the preparations. Friend Data, I shall see you then and welcome you and your companion to our cave formally at that time. In the meantime, of course, please accept the hospitality of our humble abode and consider it as yours."

"Thank you, Joharran," Data said. "Your words are most kind. We will look forward to the feast and the honour you do us."

"Tonight, then," Joharran said, and left.

* * *

"Tonight?" Riker looked at the young woman in front of him. Dr Leah Brahms looked younger than her years, and her direct and merciless manner was perhaps a way to remind people to take her seriously.

"I understand you are in a hurry, Commander," Brahms said, making some cryptic notations on the Padd she was carrying.

"It's just that I'd prefer to do the initial tests during Alpha Shift," Riker said.

"Well, you can either wait a day, delegate, or stay awake," Brahms said. "I will be, after all."

"Of course, doctor," Riker said. "What time would you be ready to start?"

"Twenty-three hundred hours. I'll need La Forge with me in Engineering."

"Of course. I'll see that he's there."

"Good." The young woman turned to leave, but then paused. "And if you're thinking of taking this ship thirty thousand years into the past, I suggest you give the engines a few light-years to settle in first."

"Thanks for the warning, doctor," Riker said, returning to his seat.

Leah Brahms headed into the turbolift, Riker already forgotten as she corrected some calculations on the Padd and ran a few rough simulations in her head.

"Oh. Engineering," she said to the computer after she realised the turbolift hadn't moved.

A few moments later she stepped out into the main engineering room of the Enterprise. It was full of people putting the final touches to the reassembly of the warp drive. She scanned the room, and quickly spotted La Forge supervising the reinstallation of the dilithium crystals, the heart of the warp drive. Suppressing a smile, she headed over to him.

"Hey, Doc," La Forge grinned as he saw her – or rather, as his brain processed the multitude of electromagnetic waves that his VISOR detected. What he saw would not be recognised by most normal people as a human female, but to La Forge, the patterns he saw were unmistakable, and beautiful. But he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice – he had fallen for her hologrammatic simulation, only to find the real Leah Brahms very different, and very married. Now, a couple of years after that rather embarrassing incident, they were good friends, but nothing more.

"Geordi, did you fix the AE35 unit?"

"All done," he said. "All working perfectly –well, better than perfectly."

"It'll need to," Brahms said seriously.

"Yeah." La Forge's habitual smile vanished. "Thirty thousand years – it's a hell of a jump."

"You'll need to push the engines to their maximum, however we manage this," Brahms said. "And they won't be fully tested. I don't like this, Geordi. Not at all."

"Well, we'll do a shake-down run first," La Forge said. "Take her out to the Oort Cloud or something."

"Not far enough," Brahms said. "I told Riker we'd need more. I'd suggest at least twenty-four hours – give the ship some cruising time at maximum sustainable warp. Somewhere like Alpha Centauri would be good. About twenty-five hours at warp nine."

"Not a problem," La Forge said. "Now, come on. Tell me the truth. What was the last time you ate?"

"Uh, ate?" Brahms looked surprised. "Uh, this morning I think. Oh-nine-hundred or so. Why?"

"Well, to celebrate getting the engines back on line, why don't you let me cook you up one of my specialities? Alaskan crayfish, courtesy of Commander Riker, pan-fried in butter and garlic, topped with a delicate cheese sauce of my own invention."

"Not tonight, Geordi," Brahms said absent-mindedly as she ran down another set of figures on her console. "We're starting the main engines at twenty-three, remember."

"I know that," La Forge said, almost pleading. "But that doesn't mean we can't take an hour off to have a relaxing meal. Come on, what do you say?"

The young woman looked at him. "Oh Geordi, I know you're only trying to be hospitable. I do appreciate it, really. But can we at least make it tomorrow night?"

"Excellent! I'll be waiting – and so will the crayfish! Oh, did you talk to the Commander?" La Forge added, remembering why she had gone up to the bridge in the first place.

"Yes," Brahms said. "He's going to keep Alpha shift on for the initial powering-up. Don't think he really trusts Beta and Gamma shifts – at least not when he's not around."

"Nah, he's just a bit protective of the Enterprise," La Forge said. "And it's his duty to be there for her, with the captain gone – I mean, with the captain absent."

* * *

**NOTES:**

Trek purists will note I have called the Klingon Homeworld by its name (Qonos) rather than "Klingon Homeworld" as it was referred to in televised TNG, but that was silly. I have also written it at "Qonos" rather than "Qo'noS"... A few changes to spiritual rituals such as the blessing of the flint - I felt in canon EC they were a little too cavalier about looting the earth. Stone means a LOT to these people, after all.

The first couple of days of story time are basically Picard and Ayla getting to know each other, and the setting up of the Enterprise's problem, which isn't too hard to solve really. I need time for Picard and Ayla to start to trust each other before I can begin to explore the central themes and ideas I have in mind.

Spellchecker wants to change "encounter with an angry Nausicaan" to "encounter with an angry Musician" and I am sorely tempted to let it….

According to Memory Alpha, the power output of a Galaxy-class starship is around 12.75 billion gigawatts of power. A bit more than my car. And a bit more than needed to send a DeLorean through time.

I have no idea what "The affine transformation of the diagonalizable matrix…" means, but it's real technobabble. They're all real, mathematical terms.

The warp factor speeds/times are as accurate as I could get. Memory Alpha is essential for writing Trek fic….

"AE35" is my minor shout-out to "2001 A Space Odyssey."


	7. Let Us Sit Upon the Ground

**7\. Let Us Sit Upon the Ground**

Picard's head was spinning. Normally he seldom drank genuine alcohol, but he had been unable to refuse the many cups of crudely-fermented grain spirits that had been pressed on him. He passed a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes, and tried to focus. In front of him was a large bonfire, roaring in the centre of a circle of people. A carcass of venison was slung over the flames, sending out a rich smell of roasting meat. It was already missing a hind leg, part of which lay on a wooden platter in front of Picard. Around him people were laughing and talking and eating and drinking, some more ostentatiously than others. He noticed more than a few couples who were more interested in each other than the party, and smiled. This could be a scene from his Academy days, from some of the campouts on the wilderness survival training course. Humans were the same everywhere. However the clothing was different. Even his was: he had asked Ayla if she could provide him and Data with local clothing, so they would blend in more, and Picard was now wearing a soft leather tunic with raised braiding made from leather strips stitched on it in winding patterns, and a pair of leather trousers that felt rather heavy and cumbersome compared to his uniform, which he was wearing underneath it, but were remarkably warm. He and Data had also been given jackets made of small pieces of fur sewn together in contrasting patterns, the fur side in. He fingered the soft leather, impressed with both the artistry and level of skill involved, both of which were far beyond anything he had been expecting.

"Jean-Luc, tell us of your Journey."

Picard looked up to see Joharran smiling down at him, and holding out a cup of the fermented drink they called 'barma'. Marthona, the co-leader of the Ninth Cave, was also with him.

"There really isn't that much to tell, you know," Picard said, wondering what he could in fact say. "This is the first encounter we've had since leaving."

"How long have you been travelling?"

Picard thought quickly. "About three weeks," he said, trying to estimate the rough amount of time it would take to walk from the Bay of Biscay to central France.

"Pardon – what is a 'week'?" Marthona asked.

Picard swore to himself. It was tricky trying to keep knowledge from them when he did not know exactly what they knew or did not know.

"My people divide the moon's phases into four periods we call 'weeks'," he explained, hoping he hadn't irrevocably changed the future development of concepts of time. He was hopeful that at any rate they were far enough in the past for any serious mistakes to be undone: cultural evolution followed a fairly standard path, barring accidents such as the great extinctions caused by meteorite impacts, and in numerous civilisations across the galaxy it was found that by and large concepts did not arise or survive in a vacuum: there had to be supporting ideas to permit them to flourish. While it was obvious that telling them in great detail how a warp drive worked would not have any impact on their culture, as they lacked the technological base on which to build, even telling them the truth about the sun and the stars would be unlikely to have any long-lasting impact, as their own social structure was far too rigid to allow such radical change. However that was only valid if the contact was brief and not repeated: extensive contact over a long period of time was another matter entirely.

"I see," Marthona said. "But nearly an entire moon, and you saw no-one?"

"Not no one," Picard said quickly, wondering how populated France was at this time. "But no group nearly as large as yours."

"I don't think there are any," Joharran said proudly. He looked around the hundred or so people that were eating and drinking, and thought of the many more that lived in the caves and hollows up and down the river. This was one of the richest and most fertile areas he had heard about, ideal for hunting and fishing and gathering, close to many migration routes, and sheltered from the worst of the winter storms by the steep valley walls. He couldn't imagine a better place to live, and was sure that was why the Mother had chosen to allow his people to find it, many generations ago.

"Did you meet a people called the Kalamaii?" Marthona asked.

Picard shook his head.

"A pity. I once travelled that way and made friends with a young girl called Taluria there. It would be nice to know how she is doing."

"I'm afraid I cannot help you." Picard looked at her crestfallen face and found himself wondering what it would be like to never hear from a friend again. In his time, no matter how far from Earth he was, subspace radio could reach him in a matter of hours at most. He was never alone, even at the edges of known space, separated from the nearest Federation outpost by thousands of light-years. But here, across distances the Enterprise could cover in less than the blink of an eye, communication was limited to that most fundamental of all speeds, the human walking pace. These people faced what was, in its own way, a vaster gulf than that between the worlds of the 24th century. It was a humbling thought.

Just then there was a booming thump, and he looked up, startled. Two men had dragged out a hollow log with a long opening down the middle, and began beating on it rhythmically. Their pace quickened, and soon climaxed with a tremendous dual thump that echoed and re-echoed off the cliffs. As if by some signal, the gathering grew quiet. Zelandoni, Marthona, and Joharran rose, and gathered before Picard and Data.

Marthona spoke first. "In the name of the Mother, we are honoured to welcome here to the Ninth Cave two travellers from distant lands. We offer them the shelter of stone, the warmth of fire, and the friendship of the hearth, and hope they will freely accept them all."

Picard bowed, but before he could reply, Zelandoni took over.

"Doni, in the name of the Ninth Cave we ask you to accept these two travellers and watch over them. In their name, we offer you this blade, that symbolises the antagonism of two peoples, and request that you show us your will."

With that, Zelandoni threw the slim flint blade she had been holding up onto the hard stone ground, where it shattered into pieces, showing the refusal by the Earth Mother to allow conflict and discord between the two groups of people.

"Now, as leader of the Ninth Cave, I offer you the tongue of the deer," Joharran said, motioning to Picard and Data to step forward. He held out a delicately-carved wooden bowl, on which something dark and wet glistened in the firelight. Picard tried to keep his expression neutral as he realised it was the raw tongue of the deer that was barbequing nearby. Joharran looked at him, and nodded. Picard took a deep breath, cleared his mind of thought, and picked up the tongue. It was heavier than he expected, cool and wet in his hands. Focusing his attention on the man in front of him, he took a big bite. His mouth was full of blood and raw meat, and he felt as if he were about to be sick, but with an effort he rapidly chewed the tender meat and swallowed. Beside him, Data took a delicate bite and returned the rest of the tongue to the plate. Although he was an android and did not require food, he was able to hold small amounts in an internal chamber, which helped him fit in at social gatherings. However his capacity was limited, and the food had to be brought back up later before it went bad, so he avoided eating and drinking as much as possible.

As Data put the meat back, there was a round of applause, and someone started banging the drum again. Through the flickering flames Picard could see Ayla looking at him, her expression unreadable. He smiled, and was pleased to see her smile back before she turned to Jondalar.

"I have never been offered raw tongue before, captain," Data said quietly. "How did you find it?"

"Not as bad as I feared, Mr Data," Picard admitted. "It was rather like steak tartare, or sashimi. However it was a bit bloody for my tastes."

He turned as someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was the rather ugly man who had been offering everyone barma all evening. Brukeval, or Laramar, or whatever his name was. The man grinned, showing badly-damaged teeth, and proffered the bag of alcohol. Picard held out his cup, made from a bison horn cut off and fitted with a wooden base, and it was soon filled to the brim with the pungent liquid.

"Good drinking, stranger," the man said. "Mine's the best barma in the region – drink up."

Picard took a swig, and as the fiery liquid burned his throat he hoped that Data had some good remedies for hangovers. As he lowered his cup he felt another tap, and found himself facing a young woman carrying a plate of fish. She broke off the head off one, and offered it to Picard.

"Thank you, uh, miss…"

"My name is Folara," the young woman smiled. "Welcome to the Ninth Cave. How long are you staying?"

"Uh, not long, Folara," Picard said. "We're really just here to visit the cave of Doni's Deep."

Folara's face darkened. "That place is dangerous. Sometimes people go in there, and never come out."

"They get lost?"

"Yes, but not their bodies. Their minds. They go in, and we find them lying there, wide awake, but they make no sound, they cannot hear us. Please, be careful if you go in there," she begged.

"I'll be all right," Picard assured her. "Zelandoni will be with me."

"Take Ayla as well," Folara said in a quiet voice, looking around. "Don't go in there without Ayla."

"Why is that?"

"She knows the spirit realm – she has been there, she has seen it," Folara said. "She knows it better than Zelandoni, and she can protect you."

Folara looked around again, and hurried off. Picard looked after her, puzzled by her remarks. He was not inclined to dismiss her warnings offhand: he had seen and heard too much in his career in Starfleet. The universe, he often reminded himself, was not only stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we _can_ imagine. Was there something about that cave that caused this, and this was why it was considered such a sacred and deadly place? Well, he would hopefully find out before too long. He resolved to have a talk with Ayla sooner rather than later, however, to see what he could learn beforehand.

Ayla watched the short stranger talking to Folara, and then stand quietly and move out of the circle after her friend had hurried away. She couldn't hear what they had said, and knew it was none of her business. But she felt responsible towards Picard, since it was she who had brought him to the Ninth Cave. Standing up, she headed over to him. He was looking up at the night sky, the stars shining in the black velvet night. He seemed to be seeking something out, but she couldn't imagine what. The mysteries of Those Who Serve were deep and complex, and she didn't presume to imagine she knew more than a smattering of lore. She stood near him, waiting patiently until he acknowledged her.

"Ayla, good evening," Picard said after a few moments. "I'm sorry, I was just looking up at the stars."

"You looked as if you were looking for something, Jean-Luc," Ayla said. "What is it you seek?"

"Understanding," Picard said slowly, his mind not as clear as he would have liked. "As always. Who we are, what our role in the cosmos is, where we are going…."

"The questions of Those Who Serve," Ayla said softly. "Do you know the answers?"

"No," Picard said sadly. "Not to all of them, and only slightly in the ones I do know. I am but a dabbler in such things."

"Perhaps the hearth-fires of the ancestors are only the beacons on the way to that knowledge, rather than the answers themselves," Ayla said, looking up at the arch of heaven, studded with the tiny fires of the past.

"Sorry, the hearth-fires?"

"Is that not what your people believe? That the stars are the hearth-fires of the ancestors?"

"Not exactly, no," Picard said. "But... you could say we believe that in a way they are our ancestors, just more remote than we can imagine."

"I should enjoy talking with you about the stars," Ayla said, looking at Picard strangely. For some reason, she suddenly felt as if he himself was from the stars, as if they were his home. She blinked, and the feeling was gone.

"I should too, Ayla," Picard said. "But right now I feel far too drunk to talk about anything coherently. Let alone astrophysics and cosmology."

"What shall we talk about then?" Ayla was confused by his words, but let them pass.

"Let us…sit upon the ground…and tell sad stories of the death of kings; how some have been deposed; some slain in war; some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; some poison'd by their wives; some sleeping kill'd…." Picard said cryptically. He looked at the tall woman beside him, and laughed. "An old legend from a famous story-teller, full of sound and fury, signifying…nothing. None of which have ever happened yet anyway."

"I do not understand," Ayla said, confused.

"No, nor do I. Nor do I…."

"Captain, you are tired," Data interjected, joining them. "Perhaps you should rest."

"Good idea, Mr Data," Picard said, rubbing his temples. "That barma stuff is almost as bad as Romulan ale. But not as blue."

"Here, take these," Data said when they were out of the light. He gave the Captain two small pills.

"Excellent, Mr Data. Let's hope this won't happen every night," Picard said, and swallowed the pills. His head began to clear, the world returning to normal focus.

* * *

_Commanding Officer's Log, Supplemental. We are about to fire up the newly-enhanced warp drive. Dr Brahms and Commander La Forge are down on the main engineering deck, in case anything goes wrong, but I do not think it will. The Kozinsky Equations have been tested in numerous simulations and have not failed for the last ten versions. I have full faith in the engineering genius of Dr Brahms and Commander La Forge's intimate knowledge of the Enterprise's systems._

Riker shut off the log, and settled back into the captain's chair.

"Main viewer on," he ordered. The large screen switched to a view of the spidery encircling arms of the Utopia Planitia shipyard dry docks, with the red and barren face of Mars far below.

"Ahead one-quarter impulse," he ordered. Without the slightest shudder, the huge vessel slowly began to gather speed.

"We are clear of the dock, commander," said the conn officer.

"Full impulse until we get past areostationary," Riker ordered. An almost imperceptible hum was the only sign of the added power. There was no change in the starfield, and nor would there be: the maximum speed of the impulse drive was well below light speed.

"Areostationary cleared sir."

"Course three-five-two mark seven," he ordered.

"Course plotted and laid in, sir."

"Warp one, engage," Riker said, sitting back in the chair as the low hum built up and the starfield blurred and distorted into the familiar streaks of light caused by Cherenkov radiation – the mysterious glow emitted when super-relativistic particles moving faster than the local speed of light were forced to slow down when they escaped the warp shell. As the particles crossed the warp field, they were repeatedly accelerated to faster-than-light velocities and then slowed to normal speeds; part of the visual manifestation of Einsteinian space in subspace.

"Warp one sir," announced the conn.

"Keep increasing until warp nine," Riker ordered.

The streaks of light lengthened, and the humming increased in pitch as the massively powerful engines of Starfleet's flagship gathered their energies. Riker looked at the hypnotic lights on the screen, hoping that this time the warp core would behave itself: it was only a few months since the previous attempt at enhancing the warp core with interphase technology had led to the crew being invaded and attacked by unusual interphasic beings. It was an episode Riker preferred to forget, and he hoped that this time there would be no weird beings caught up in the warp field.

"Warp nine, sir," announced the conn.

"Right, take her up to warp nine-point-nine over ten minutes," Riker ordered. The warp speed scale was based upon the amount of power required to transition from one warp plateau to another, and became an asymptotic curve as it approached Warp Factor Ten, the theoretical limit that represented infinite speed. Warp 9.9 was about a third faster than warp 9.6, and, if all went well, the Enterprise's new maximum sustainable speed.

Riker's nervousness grew as the ship's speed increased. The hum was now definitely audible, and he could feel it through his seat. He kept an eye on the chronometer and warp factor indicator on his armrests as the minutes ticked by.

"Relax, Will," Troi said calmly. "Geordi and Leah know what they're doing."

"Yes, but I don't know what they're doing," Riker said, "and that's what worries me. The last time we tried anything Kozinsky came up with we were thrown halfway across the universe, remember?"

"That was years ago, Will. His work since then has been meticulous and even a little bit conservative. There's nothing to worry about."

"Except getting the ship back thirty thousand years to rescue the captain and Data," Riker said.

"Of course. We will. I know you care deeply for both of them, Will," Troi said.

"We all do, Deanna," Riker replied. "We all do. And we'll get them back."

"Warp nine-point-nine, sir," conn announced.

"Geordi, how are the engines doing?" Riker called out as the computer automatically relayed his message to the engineering room.

"Singing like a canary, commander! Music to my ears!" Geordi's enthusiasm was palpable even on the bridge, and for the first time Riker allowed himself to relax a little.

"Commander, we should return to impulse drive, so I can run a few tests," came Brahms' voice.

"Very well. Signal all stop," Riker ordered.

"Engines answering all stop, sir," conn replied as the warp field vanished and the stars resumed their familiar shapes.

"How long will it take to run those tests?" Riker asked.

"Not more than a few hours," La Forge replied. "But we need to wait until the engines are cold first."

"How long will that take?"

"We'll get onto it in the morning, commander, if that's acceptable."

"Fair enough." Riker rubbed his beard. "Right, schedule whatever tests you need for the morning, and don't wake me unless the ship explodes. I'm off to bed."

* * *

That night Picard lay on a bed of cured furs, looking up at the rough rock roof of the cave, soot-blackened with age, and lit dimly by the flickering embers of a dozen hearth-fires. He could hear the sounds of people around him echoing off the abri roof: quiet conversations, the occasional clunk or thump of something being moved, the crackle and hiss of fires, and the low breathing of sleeping people. His mind was racing with the events of the day, trying to sort them out, to make some sense of them. Tomorrow he and Data must go to the shuttle wreckage, which was not far away apparently. Hopefully there would be something salvageable, though he doubted it. Falling from several kilometres up would have caused severe damage. He only hoped the dilithium chamber was not cracked or damaged too badly in the crash, or else it might begin leaking anti-matter. He knew that under normal circumstances you could drop a shuttle directly on the Earth from the orbit of the moon and its anti-matter containment pods would hold, but passing through a serious chronowave distortion did strange things to the fields that held in the vast power of the anti-matter engines. Time was a strange beast, Picard reflected. The normal laws of cause and effect did not apply in Time-Space, the chronometric equivalent to normal Space-Time. Events could precede causes, but not necessarily, or only sometimes. And trying to tame its unimaginable energies was an immensely complex business. He only hoped that Riker and the others were able to get to a time insertion point as close to his as possible. He was acutely aware that they could be years out – either way. At least once they found the signature of the shuttle they'd be able to find Data and him very easily. That was some comfort to him as he lay under the cold stone of the remote past.

.

* * *

**NOTES:**

Details of the clothing are based on Inuit clothing patterns, especially those from the mummies dating back over 500 years that were found in the 1980s with their clothing intact. The hollow log is based on a Polynesian drum I saw in a museum. Hollowed out from the top, with a long slit. The blade ritual is made up, but seems like it could work. I've generally taken a few liberties with the Ninth Cave feast/introduction scene, adding a bit more of a spiritual aspect, and the tongue is pinched straight from "Dances with Wolves" but used differently. I have no idea what raw tongue tastes like, and hopefully never will. I can't even stand cooked tongue.

Picard's musings about the strangeness of the universe are based on JBS Haldane's famous quote about "…the Universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we **_can_** suppose."

After Picard gazes at the stars, he quotes Shakespeare's Richard II, Act 3, Scene 2. I thought it fitting for a Shakespearean actor.

You can't have a geostationary orbit around Mars. "Geo" means "Earth," after all. The correct terms is "areostationary," from Ares of course.

Cherenkov radiation is a real thing, and some fan speculation has it that the streaks are similar radiation spikes, as they very clearly are not actual stars.

The reference to an episode Riker would like to forget regarding "interphasic beings" is a reference to the episode Phantasms (7x06).


	8. A Deeper Well

**8\. A Deeper Well**

_Commanding Officer's Log, Stardate 48424.59. Commander La Forge has just told me the warp engines are ready to be fully tested for a twelve-hour run at warp nine point nine. Not a moment too soon. Despite Admiral Necheyev's refusal to allow us a temporal displacement drive, I intend to take the Enterprise into the past anyway, the old-fashioned way._

"Slingshot around the sun? No, we can't do it, commander. I've checked. Dr Brahms was right – we simply cannot get enough speed, or turn tightly enough. The gravity well isn't deep enough."

Riker's face fell. "I was hoping you would be able to tell me it was at least barely possible."

"I'm afraid not, commander. The ship can't handle it. We need more speed. It might be possible to lower the mass of the ship using a focused subspace field from the deflector array, except that we need that for the inverse tachyon field…."

"Any other problems?" Riker said, his face weary.

"Yes, lots," La Forge said bluntly. "Even if it works and if the Enterprise doesn't tear herself apart, I just can't guarantee we'll be anywhere near the right time when we come out."

"It doesn't have to be the same minute, or even the same week," Riker said.

"Seriously, Commander, I'd be hard-pressed to get the right year."

"How close can you get?" Worf interrupted, skipping ahead of the immediate insoluble problem in favour of one that looked easier.

"I'd need to run some simulations," La Forge said. "Best case scenario at this stage, I'd say we would have a two to four month window."

"We can't hang around for four months, even if we can get back at the same time. Not good enough."

"Not yet, but as I said, once I've run some simulations, I should be able to get it down to a month – that is, two weeks either side of their original insertion point."

"And how do we get back?" Worf asked.

"That's the easy part – we just reverse the equations," La Forge said. "Back just a few minutes after we leave, taking into account initial acceleration. No one will know we were ever gone, Commander – including Admiral Nechayev."

"Good," Riker grunted. He wasn't happy about going behind the Admiral's back, but at least she hasn't given him a direct order. She had merely refused to supply him with the tools for the job, so he was going to do the job, tools or no tools. He was in command, and the Enterprise was his, as she had confirmed. So it was time for some shore leave on Earth – thirty millennia ago. "Now try and find us a way to get that extra speed. You have twelve hours."

"And here I thought I was going to be rushed... Okay, I'll get on it right away, Commander." La Forge hurried back to the turbolift. The doors hissed open, and he entered. When he was alone in it, he rubbed his temples, grimacing. Thirty thousand years into the past? No one had ever gone that far back, not even with a chronodrive, let alone slingshotting around the sun. _Is it even theoretically possible_, he asked himself. _Dammit Geordi, you're an engineer, not a theoretical physicist. Ah, wait, but Leah is a theoretical engineer_, he reminded himself. _Of course_….

"Computer! Locate Dr Leah Brahms!"

"Dr Brahms is in her quarters," replied the dispassionate mechanical voice.

"Excellent. Deck Eight," he ordered the computer, and the turbolift shot off again, its inertial dampers concealing any sensation of movement at all. In a few moments the doors hissed open again.

"I really must see if I can't do something about the noise starship doors make," La Forge muttered to himself as they hissed shut behind him. He hurried down the long curving corridor. "Ah, here we are."

He pressed the intercom switch "Leah, it's Geordi. Do you have a moment?"

"Just a moment." The door hissed open, and Leah Brahms stepped out. "I was just on my way to see you, Geordi," she said.

"What about?"

"Well, Commander Riker wants to take the ship into the past, right? And it's an even bet that Necheyev won't let him have a temporal displacement drive. Or did I hear the rumours wrong?"

"You heard right," La Forge admitted.

"No surprise there. She's only been permitted one, and doesn't want you to break it. So what are your options?"

"You know we only have two other options, Leah," La Forge said. "Find a convenient Borg ship, persuade it to go back to Earth in thirty thousand years ago and ride on its chronometric particle wake, or…"

"Or do what Kirk did twice with the original Enterprise," Brahms finished for him. "However, you have a problem – the Enterprise simply can't go that fast."

"Yeah, we need to figure out a way to get a bit more power from the engines," La Forge said.

Brahms looked at him strangely, a slight smile playing about her features. "Do we?" she asked softly.

"Well, yes, you know we need more speed," La Forge said.

"I assure you, I know it very well," Brahms said. "But do you?"

"Yes, I…" La Forge broke off. "I – of course! I've been blind!"

"You only figured that out now?" Brahms said, looking at his VISOR.

"How could I not have seen it? It's so simple!" He tapped his communicator pin. "Commander Riker? Geordi here. I know how we can get more speed."

"How?" came Riker's disembodied voice.

"You remember I told you we needed more speed, and the Enterprise's engines couldn't give us any more power?"

"Yes. And?"

"We just need a steeper hill," La Forge said. "We use the gravitational well of the sun not just for the acceleration and lateral subspace translation into c-space for the time jump, but to increase our speed. So a star with more mass will drag us in that much quicker, and, more to the point, have a steeper gravity well. That's where we get the added speed from."

"Excellent. Good work, Geordi." The relief in Riker's voice was evident through the intercom.

"I should have seen it earlier, commander. I wasn't thinking," La Forge said. "There's another advantage as well. Roughly speaking, a super-dense stellar mass like a black hole causes a hole in not just space but time – time ceases to exist as one dimension but can be accessed from three, allowing us to travel to any time. The slingshot effect, using the light-speed breakaway factor, allows us to recreate a similar effect in subspace using the sun's gravity well. The farther back we need to go, the bigger the sub-space black hole needs to be. So if we use a much denser star than the sun we can create a bigger opening with less relative speed – with a big enough star, thirty thousand years will be easy."

"Where do you have in mind?" Riker asked.

"We'll do some thinking, and let you know commander," La Forge said.

"Keep me posted. Riker out."

Brahms looked at La Forge, smiling. La Forge loved it when she smiled. She looked like she was planning some huge cosmic joke, some impish jest. It was a smile that radiated fun rather than just happiness.

"So, Geordi, now that you have set our good commander at ease, which star shall we choose?"

"Well, there are any number we could use," La Forge said.

"True. But we don't need to go too far. We're travelling at warp nine point nine for twelve hours, so we'll be about four and a half light years from Earth. Nothing good that close, but there are a few candidates in the ten to twenty light-year range. Where would you suggest?"

"Ummmm," Geordi said, uncomfortably aware that Brahms was testing him. He was sure she had already worked out the ideal candidate, and was waiting to see if he was up to her level. "Oh, I know. How about Epsilon Hydrae A, at two earth masses? Or wait, no: what direction are we heading? Okay – how about Sirius B – it's a white dwarf and so the intense gravitational field would make up for its slightly smaller-than-ideal mass."

"Good choice, Commander. Sirius B was what I would have recommended. It should provide easily enough of a gravitational well to slingshot back that far."

"Yeah, too much farther and we'd need a real black hole," La Forge joked.

"That was almost funny, Geordi. But keep trying," Brahms said as she turned away to hide her smile. "Now you just need to plot the orbit and run some simulations."

"Yeah, child's play," Geordi groaned.

"Well, come on then," Brahms said, smiling openly this time. "We've got some work to do!"

"We?"

"What, you think I'm going to pass up an opportunity to calculate the orbit for a thirty-thousand year slingshot? I could get several papers out of this, as well as be keynote speaker at the next Daystrom conference. It's going to be on Risa, the pleasure planet, after all – can't pass that up."

"Well, we have twelve hours to figure out an orbital path and velocity," La Forge said. "Then the commander is going to want to take us back to the Ice Age."

* * *

Picard was dreaming. He was back home in France, at his family's house in LeBarre, among the gently rolling vineyards. He could hear the sound of the neighbourhood children playing in the morning sun, feel the gentle breeze of an early summer zephyr brush his cheek. But then the scene shifted; the children's voices faded out, and he found himself floating alone in a vast black void, tumbling in an infinite darkness.

His eyes snapped open, and saw rough blackened rock. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and when he was. Thirty thousand years ago, at the dawn of human culture, the beginning of everything.

"I am glad to see you awake." The cave woman called Ayla was kneeling by his bed, offering him a steaming cup. He took it, and sipped at its contents. It was a tea of some herbs he did not recognise. He sighed softly. A pity the people here would never know the rich complex flavours of Indian, Sri Lankan, or Chinese tea, he thought. But he had to admit the brew he was drinking was an interesting substitute.

"What is this made of?" he asked.

"Alfalfa and alder, with a sprig of mint," Ayla replied.

Picard looked in his cup. He could see a few small leaves and bits of vegetation in it, but he was no botanist. He doubted he could even recognise alder if he saw it.

"Interesting. I haven't had that before," he said.

"What do you normally drink?" Ayla asked.

"Earl Grey," Picard said, knowing it would mean nothing to her.

"Early grey what?" Ayla asked, confused.

"It's made from the leaves of a plant we simply call 'tea', but with added bergamot, a type of citrus, for flavouring. But I don't think either plant grows around here," Picard said.

"Did you bring any with you?" Ayla asked. "I always like to carry a supply of herbs for teas, as well as medicines."

"No, we didn't," Picard said. "Probably should have," he added to himself.

"Good morning captain, Ayla," said Data, coming into the room from the smaller area at the back of the Visitors' Hut.

"Did you sleep well, Data?" Ayla asked, offering him a cup of tea.

"I passed a most enjoyable night, thank you," he said. "And yourself?"

"Well, the baby was a bit fractious, but that's normal," Ayla said.

"You shouldn't be worrying about us when you have a baby," Picard said, his face concerned. "We can take care of ourselves, really."

"No, she's playing with Jondalar now. She's fine," Ayla said happily.

"Jondalar's her father, right?" Picard asked, wanting to get family connections straight - it wasn't always straight-forward in primitive societies. But he was surprised by Ayla's reaction. She sat and stared at him, breathing deeply.

"Tell me, Jean-Luc, how you think babies are created," she said quietly.

"Uh, perhaps it would be better if you told me," he said, not knowing what her views were. "I would be interested to hear your ideas."

"Do you think it is possible that the man can also contribute to the baby?" she asked eagerly. "It's not just him opening her up for the spirits, is it? There's something more involved, isn't there?"

Picard looked at Ayla carefully, assessing the situation. What he said now could affect the intellectual development of the entire human race, so he needed to tread carefully. There would be no harm in agreeing with a theory, but he needed to be careful not plant ideas in her head.

"Tell me what makes you think this," he said slowly.

"But do you agree?" Ayla asked, looking at him eagerly. "You know I'm right, don't you? I can tell."

"Please, Ayla, I would love to know why you think this. It seems you are in a minority, correct?"

"Yes, I am. Few care to join me in my thoughts, but I know I am right." She looked at Picard, and at the unusual appearance of his trusted companion, and decided he would not be shocked. "Let me tell you why I think this." Quickly, she told him of her adoption by the Clan and the birth of her son. She could see rage and amazement on the older man's face as she talked, but not disgust.

"He raped you when you were twelve," Picard breathed. "Ayla, I don't have the words to express my sadness and anger at what he did to you, but what you have told me about your son Durc is amazing. We did not know that – what was the term you used? – the Clan could interbreed with us. My people have speculated about it, but we have never known for certain."

"Do not men sometimes take Clan women where you live?" Ayla asked. "Or perhaps, Clan men take your women?"

"Ayla," Picard began sadly, "The people you know as the Clan… they have not lived in our land for a very long time. All we know of them are their remains," he said.

"Where have they gone?" she asked, a small knot of fear forming in the pit of her stomach. The worry about the future she had managed to suppress since the strangers arrived rekindled, and increased in strength.

"We do not really know," Picard said. "All we know is that there are none left. How many are around here?" he added.

"Very few," she replied, her face downcast. "Creb told me that they were leaving, that soon they would be gone. It has already begun, I see."

"Creb was your adopted father, wasn't he? He sounds like a wise man," Picard said.

"He was the great Mog-Ur, the wisest of them all. And even he couldn't prevent it. Even he can't stop my dreams, my premonitions."

"What dreams are these?" Picard asked.

"Just… dreams," Ayla said. She wasn't ready to talk about them yet, but she sensed the stranger would be able to interpret them better than she herself could. Perhaps even better than Zelandoni. "Would you like to take a walk?" she asked.

"Actually, yes," Picard said. "I haven't really had much of a chance to look around."

"Come, then," Ayla said. "There's someone I want you to meet."

* * *

"You tamed a wolf? Impressive," Picard said, looking cautiously at the animal. "Most attempts that I have heard about failed."

"You know of other people who have befriended wolves?" Ayla was unable to hide her disappointment. She had hoped that she was unique in taming Wolf, but it seemed not to be the case.

"Well, I've heard it's been done – but never as well as this," Picard said. The animal Ayla called Ulf, which she had explained was the Mamutoi word for 'wolf,' was sitting at her feet like an obedient puppy. Picard was almost tempted to pat him, but didn't want to risk a bite.

Ayla was amused at the older man's reluctance. She had seen it many times before: it was a common reaction to Wolf.

"He won't bite," she said. "Go ahead. He loves being tickled behind the ears."

Picard gingerly brushed his hand against the rough fur of the large canine, which growled softly.

"He likes you," Ayla said happily.

"Ah, good," Picard breathed. He was no more comfortable around dogs than he was around children, although his aversion to the latter had become somewhat diminished through serving for seven years on a starship full of them. But it wasn't full of dogs, and he was still not sure how to handle them. He stood back up, and looked expectantly at his hostess.

"Is there anything in particular you would like to see?" Ayla asked. "No, stay, Wolf. Jean-Luc and I are going for a walk."

"No, let him come if he wants to," Picard said. "I'm just not used to him yet, that's all."

They were at one end of the great wide mouth of the abri, the eastern, where all the huts were clustered in the area where they were able get the maximum amount of sunshine. Picard saw how they were made of stone on the lower levels and of wooden frames covered in hides above, although sometimes the stone extended the full way up. The hides were decorated in ornate designs, and he moved closer to one hut to examine them. They were beautifully rendered pictures of animals and various abstract symbols painted in black and many vivid shades of red, yellow, and brown. Bison, deer, wild steppe horses, and above all the great and powerful mammoth.

"Why do you decorate your huts in this way?" he asked.

Ayla blinked. She hadn't really thought about it. Art was not her strong suit, and although she had developed an appreciation for it, largely thanks to Ranec, she was generally of a more practical bent.

"Does it have some religious or spiritual meaning?" Picard was asking.

"I'm sorry, I never really asked anyone," Ayla said. "I don't think so."

"They're incredible," he breathed. He bent down and looked at the animals, lost in thought. The creation of art meant the creation of abstractions: the substitution of a symbol for the reality. The use of symbols was an important step towards being able to convey meanings through these symbols not just to a small group of people, but to many people, and over a long period of time. In short, it was the first giant step on the path towards writing, the single greatest invention of the human species. Picard felt his spine tingle as his fingers gently traced the intricate detailing of the animals that defined the world of the Palaeolithic.

"It's beautiful, whatever its purpose," he said softly.

Ayla was quite surprised by his interest. Surely his own people had similar art? She asked him.

"Our art is…different," he said. "Nor better, or worse. Just…different."

Ayla sensed he was holding something back, but not from malice. She sensed he wanted to tell her, but couldn't. Probably because I am not a full member of Those Who Serve, she told herself sadly. I know that Zelandoni has many secrets as well.

Picard stood up, and walked on, Ayla following him. He looked around, seeing hides being cured in frames, and long shafts of spears, apparently in the process of being straightened, leaning against a crosspiece supported by two posts. Baskets in different stages of completion were stacked in another place, and thongs were drying stretched between pairs of bone posts. Long skeins of cordage hung from pegs pounded into crossbeams above unfinished nets stretched across a frame, and loosely woven netting in bundles on the ground. Skins, some dyed various colours, including many shades of red, were cut into pieces and nearby, partially assembled articles of clothing were hanging. It was a busy life, but not overly hard. People were laughing and chatting, children were running free among the huts and working adults.

He headed out to the central area, clear of huts, where gatherings and feasts were held on days when the weather was inclement. There was a large firepit in the centre, and he wondered which archaeologist would be poking through its remains in another thirty millennia. Then he remembered that the cave system had collapsed by the time modern archaeologist were to take an interest in it. His mind's eye saw an image of the massive rock that hung above the entrance, and he headed out into the wide area that ran down the river, and looked up.

Ayla followed him, noting his interest in the Falling Rock, and it worried her. She had had enough nightmares, or visions perhaps, that involved that rock and Creb leaving her, and the fact that Picard, the stranger who had arrived when she had had another vision of Creb leaving her, was taking an interest in it disturbed her considerably. She was glad when he turned away without comment, and smiled at her.

"How many other caves are inhabited around here?" he asked.

"Six," Ayla replied. "Although more were inhabited in the past. People change caves from time to time."

"Captain." Data came up to them. He greeted Ayla, and then turned to Picard.

"Yes, what is it, Mr Data?"

"With your permission, captain, I should like to return to the shuttle to see what items of value I can salvage from the wreckage."

"What about the radiation levels? Didn't you say there was a danger of leakage?"

"Yes, captain, but I should be quite safe for a short period. We do not yet know for certain how serious the leakage is, either. It may not be a good idea to leave it here when we depart."

"It wouldn't be a good idea anyway, Mr Data," Picard said quietly. "We must not leave any traces of our visit here. It would be…rude to our hosts."

Ayla had not followed much of the conversation. The reference to a shuttle made her think of weaving – Marthona called the small wooden stick she passed through the strands a 'shuttle,' but what this had to do with the two strangers she had no idea. Nor was there any sense to the word 'leakage' in this context. And what was 'radiation'? Was it to do with The Mother? She was sure she had never heard any of the Zelandonis use the word.

"Very good sir," Data was saying. "I should be back before noon. With your permission, then."

"Make it so," Picard said.

Data nodded, and headed off.

"What was that about?" Ayla asked curiously.

"We, uh, left some equipment back near where you found us," Picard said, looking after Data and not at Ayla.

"I found something strange, come to think of it," Ayla said. "Just before I found you, I heard a huge noise."

Picard stiffened. "Yes?" He tried to keep his voice calm, but knew he wasn't succeeding.

_He knows something about this_, Ayla realised. _Perhaps he can help me understand what it means_.

"A long scar in the face of the earth," she said, looking at him closely. "There was something at the end, too. Like a tent of stone, but glowing like a green fire."

"Did you go near it?" Picard asked, and Ayla was shocked at the intensity of his question. He looked at her hard. "Tell me, did you go near it?"

"No, I felt something was wrong, something dangerous about it," she said.

Picard visibly relaxed. "Good. It might be dangerous. I am expecting some companions to join me in a few days, and we shall get rid of it together."

"What is it?" Ayla asked.

"It is something that does not belong here," Picard said. "I am sorry, but I cannot tell you more at the moment."

"Is it…dangerous?" Ayla asked, suddenly struck by a premonition.

Picard was silent for a while, his eyes clouded. "I hope not," he said. "But perhaps you should tell your people not to go near it until we can be sure."

"I will do that, Jean-Luc," Ayla said. "But if you are able to counter this attack on the Mother, then please do so."

"I will," he said. "I give you my word. Now, shall we continue our walk?"

* * *

**NOTES:**

Why do Trek doors hiss so much? It annoys me. And that's really all the notes for this chapter.

[Posted 4-4-14]


	9. An Inner Light

**9\. An Inner Light**

"No, no, no, no, no! That will never work!" La Forge thumped the console in exasperation.

"Yes it will, Geordi," Brahms said patiently. "Look, see this section here? That's where we can compensate for the lateral shear. The trilateral function of the polynumerator works to stabilise the gamma-r-z factor. All we have to do is modify the deflector array to emit the inverse tachyon array, and we're home free."

"I'll need to see it in simulation," La Forge said suspiciously. "Computer! Run program Brahms three-nine!"

The simulated engineering deck vanished, and they found themselves apparently hanging in the blackness of space. In front of them, a tiny projected model of the Enterprise was heading towards a bright binary star system. Its warp nacelles flashed a bright blue-white, and it blurred into a multi-hued streak as it shot towards the suns, faster and faster. Hanging in the void, a digital readout gave them acceleration figures and other data, which Brahms and La Forge rapidly cross-checked with their padds.

"Nine-point-nine-five," La Forge muttered as the ship reached the smaller of the two suns, and was almost lost in the simulated glare. "Computer! Show gravity wells!"

A complex array of glowing green lines suddenly appeared around the star system, showing how space-time was being warped by the mass of the suns. The smaller, Sirius B, showed a far denser banding, as it was twice the mass of Sol, but only the size of the Earth. And it was to that that the Enterprise was headed, now at warp nine point nine-eight. That was not a speed it could sustain in real life for more than a few minutes without serious strain on the hull. La Forge bit his lip as the tiny ship snapped around the star, and then exploded.

"Damn! Computer, restore engineering room simulation!"

"Well, that didn't work," Brahms said quietly. "How odd."

"How odd? How _odd_? How odd for us when we're the ones exploding on the far side of Sirius?"

"Calm down Geordi," Brahms said, tapping at the main engineering console. While it was just a holographic projection of light and forcefields, the computer was analysing her movements and instantly relaying them to the real engineering console. The ability to not only test experiments in the Holosuites but also to perfectly simulate every part of the ship meant that they were often used for theoretical work such as this.

"Okay, I think I see it now," she added after a few moments. "You – uh, we – forgot to compensate for the Nuclear Doppler Effect. At that speed every electron of the Enterprise is slightly Doppler-shifted twice in each orbit, along the line of subspace motion, and as they were under such an intense gravity well at the same time, they were phase-shifted out of sync just enough to break their bonds. So the whole ship literally turned into so much sub-atomic dust, leaving the anti-matter fuel to react with anything it touched."

"And boom," La Forge said dully. "Great. How do we stop that?"

"Not sure," Brahms admitted slowly.

"Oh great."

"But I have a few ideas. Come on, Geordi, don't look so depressed! Professor Templetor's research on micro-fusion reactions in high-gravity environments could be useful. Let me just go get my notes on him. Computer! Exit!"

Brahms hurried out of the Holodeck, Geordi looking after her. He shook his head slowly.

"I'm amazed she ever slowed down enough to get married," he said to himself, and turned back to the console.

* * *

"Ayla, greetings!"

"Good morning, Proleva," Ayla smiled. "Do you remember Jean-Luc?" she added, gesturing to the man beside her.

"We met last night, I believe. I don't really recall – I had a bit much barma I think."

"I think we all did," Picard said. Provela…was he introduced to her last night? He'd met so many people it was hard to keep track. Wait, now he had her…. "You're Joharran's mate, correct? The first lady of the cave?"

"I'm sorry – the first lady?" Proleva looked confused, as did Ayla.

"It's what we term the leader's wife in my land," Picard explained.

"No, I could never accept such a title for myself," Proleva said. "Zelandoni is the First, and always will be – until Ayla takes over, that is."

"I haven't even joined yet," Ayla said, and Picard could see her flush.

"I know you will," Proleva said. "How can you not? The Mother has given you such great gifts. You will bring honour and glory to the Ninth Cave, mate of my mate's brother."

"Thank you, Proleva," Ayla said, her voice somewhat distant. She turned, and carried on down the riverbank. Picard followed after her, turning over what he had just seen in his mind. He did not say anything, however, as he sensed it was a delicate topic, and certainly not one that he should become involved in. Even without the Prime Directive, Starfleet officers were strictly forbidden from interfering in the internal affairs of other peoples. Even when such interference would benefit the Federation, as in the case of Bajor and the new anti-Federation spiritual leader, Kai Winn, they had recently chosen.

They crossed a small tributary stream, and carried on down.

"This is Down River, the area set aside for general projects," Ayla said, indicating another large abri made up of two connected shelters. In it, several men and women were working. "It is where the people of the Zelandonii, all the caves in the area, gather together to work on projects and share ideas and stories."

"Would they mind if we had a look?"

Ayla laughed. "Of course not! They'd love to see visitors. But watch your feet – there can be sharp flint pieces scattered around. We have to tell the children not to come here with bare feet."

"I should be all right," Picard said. Though he had covered his Starfleet uniform with Zelandonii clothes, he was still wearing his regulation boots. They were not too dissimilar to the leather boots everyone else was wearing, and so far had attracted little attention.

Ayla greeted a few crafters who were still around the stone shelter at the north end of the terrace, working on some project, and introduced Picard. They looked up and nodded, and returned to their work.

"Do not be offended, Jean-Luc," Ayla said. "They are merely busy. If you wish to ask questions, go ahead."

"Thank you," Picard said. "Yes, I do have a few questions."

He hurried up eagerly, and was soon lost in conversation. Ayla watched him go, and sighed. She found him a puzzle. What did he know? What was he concealing? Why did he seem so ignorant of certain everyday things? She knew that despite his limitations he was intelligent and wise, like Creb, and like Creb, there was an air of lingering mystery about him. It reminded her of what she had felt between Creb and herself after the Root Ceremony, when she had shared his mind, his visions. There was the same feeling of a vast, uncrossable gulf yawning between them.

"Ayla!" Jondalar's voice jerked her out of her reverie. "Jonayla's calling for you!" He held the infant out to her mother, who cradled the child tenderly.

"Thank you, Jondalar," Ayla said. "Are you going to work on the flint today?" She nodded her head towards Down River.

"Yes, I was hoping to finish the blade I was making for the ceremony," the tall man answered. "And since Jonayla wanted to be with you, I thought this was a good time."

"She was insistent, was she?" Ayla asked, a slight smile playing about her lips.

"Yes, very," Jondalar said. "I couldn't keep her quiet."

"Indeed? So she calls out for me while sleeping, does she?"

"Uh, um, well, I…she must have fallen asleep as I was bringing her to you," Jondalar finished, his face pink.

"Never mind," Ayla said softly, looking down at the peacefully slumbering face of her baby. "You go off and flake your stones. Make beautiful blades to honour the Mother, and let this mother honour her guardian spirits and totem by caring for the child they have brought her."

"Thanks," Jondalar said, already halfway to the cave. He strode up to the flint area, and was pleased to see the visitor sitting there, engrossed in conversation with Ranokol. The latter looked up as they approached and nodded a greeting. The stranger turned, and smiled.

"Greetings, Jean-Luc," Jondalar hailed him, and was greeted in return by the older man. "I am glad to see you here. Today I intend to make a blade to honour the Mother, one that will be offered to her at the Cave Ceremony in a few days' time. Would you be interested in observing?"

"It would be an honour," Picard said with feeling.

"Don't let me keep you," Ranokol said. "Jonadalar is a far better knapper than I, and besides I am only making axe-heads here."

"I am grateful nevertheless, Ranokol," Picard said. "Thank you for your time."

"Come on, over here," Jondalar said as he led the way to his favourite knapping spot. "Watch your feet," he warned, kicking away a few of the larger shards that littered the area. He sat down on a low rock, and motioned to Picard to sit opposite him. Taking out a small leather bundle, he opened it carefully.

"There, look at that," he said proudly, showing Picard three lumps of rock that seemed to almost glisten in the sun.

"Raw flint," Picard commented. He leaned in closer, examining the rocks. They were about twenty centimetres long, smooth and dark.

"Pick one up," Jondalar urged. "Feel anything different about it?"

Picard hefted one up, and ran his fingers along its surface. It felt slightly slick, almost as if it had been oiled, but he didn't know what he was supposed to be feeling. His puzzlement must have shown on his face, as Jondalar took it back from him with an air of distinct smugness.

"It's been heated," he explained. "These are three nodules that I split from a larger one that I heated by fire. When flint is heated very hot before it is worked, you have much more control over the stone. Wymez, a master knapper I knew among the Mamutoi, taught me this. Watch."

Jondalar wrapped a leather strip around his left hand to protect it, and then used it to hold the stone. With his right, he picked up a small bone tool, which he placed against the edge of the stone, and pushed. To Picard's surprise, a long flat sliver of stone quietly separated from the flint. Jondalar did not need to smash stones together to make tools: this was no random bashing of rocks, but an almost surgically precise act of creation. He watched in fascination as Jondalar worked his way around the stone, delicately easing off the parts he did not want until he was left with a long thin leaf-shaped blade.

"There is nothing so satisfying as seeing a perfect blade take shape, one that turned out just the way you planned," Jondalar said as he turned the stone back and forth in the light. He took another, smaller, tool and began flaking off small slivers along the back of the blade, evening it out and creating a delicate rippled pattern.

"It's beautiful," Picard breathed. The entire process had taken less than thirty minutes, and during that entire time, Picard had not so much as shifted position. To be granted the opportunity to observe a master at work was not one to be taken lightly, and despite the vast gulf of time and technology that separated them, Picard knew that Jondalar was as much a master of his craft as any warp engineer of the 24th century.

"Here, take a look," Jondalar said, passing it over. Picard took it gingerly, and ran his finger lightly along the edge. It was lethally sharp, just slightly denticulated by the scars of the many tiny flakes that had been removed. He ran his fingertips lightly over the surface and felt the small ridges left behind by the many similar tiny flakes that had been detached to give the flint point such a fine, precise shape.

"Very nice," he murmured. "A work of art, indeed."

Jondalar grinned, very pleased with himself. The newcomer might not know much about making blades, but he certainly appreciated them. Jondalar was sure he must use them himself in Mother rituals, and was glad his work compared to the best that his guest's people had to offer.

"Do you want to try?" he asked, holding out another nodule.

"I have never tried it," Picard said. "I would ruin your stone."

"Never?" Jondalar asked, raising his eyebrows. He couldn't remember a time when he had not been playing with stone, at first hitting rocks together at random, then, under the bemused and later increasingly strict guidance of the older men, learning the subtle ways of the stone: how to tell at a glance if a nodule was usable, how to get the thinnest blades, how to create spearheads that did not shatter on impact, and now how to heat the raw stone to bring out its inner fire. "You mean you never even played around with stone as a child?" he added.

"Not really," Picard admitted.

"You want to give it a try?" the taller man asked.

Picard shook his head, refusing Jondalar's offer. He knew that whatever clumsy misshapen object he created would make a mockery of the achievements of these people, and the level of their culture. As a child, stone had been little more to him than the building blocks of his house. Later in life, he had often seen and admired the elegant sculptures in marble that were some of the greatest legacies of the Classical Age of ancient Greece and Rome, as well as the masterpieces of Michelangelo and Cellini and the refined classicism of French Baroque under Louis XIV, but he realised that nowhere before had he felt such an affinity between the art, the artist, and the stone as now, in a river valley thirty thousand years before any of the great works that were considered masterpieces by his own people.

* * *

Data crested the final ridge and jogged down to the ruined shuttlecraft. He took out a tricorder and scanned the area, his brow furrowing in a subconsciously activated program. Folding it shut again, he headed up to the rear door, and prised it open, the plasti-steel groaning in protest as he did so.

Inside, the soft green glow was even stronger. Data knew that he had to act quickly: even he could not withstand the radiation indefinitely. Swiftly but methodically, he rummaged through several lockers, gathering what he needed into a large pouch. Finally, he went to the control panel, and scanned what remained of its readouts. Then he pressed a switch, and opened a small control panel. Twisting two keys, he then pressed another, large, switch. A red light began flashing, and a synthesized voice spoke.

"You have activated the warp core ejection program while on a planetary body. This may prevent successful ejection of the warp core. Please give your security code to enable countdown."

"Data, alpha two-zero, zero-zero-three, destruct," the android said.

"Code authenticated. Warp core ejection countdown started. You have ten minutes to reach minimum safe distance."

Data picked up his bag, and left the shuttle. He retreated a few hundred metres and waited patiently. At the exact moment his internal chronometer indicated, there was a blinding flash, and something was shot out of the rear of the shuttlecraft, half burying itself in the loose earth. He headed back, and examined it. The object was about two metres long and thirty centimetres in diameter, and was pulsating softly. Data picked it up without apparent effort, his feet sinking somewhat into the ground with the added weight, and carried it inside the shuttle. He slid open a panel on the top of the cylinder, and pressed a series of buttons before placing the cylinder on the emergency transporter pad.

"Computer, set transport co-ordinates zero, zero, one thousand," he ordered.

"Co-ordinates set," replied the computer.

"Energise," Data said.

The cylinder shimmered and flickered and was gone in a haze of glowing atoms. It rematerialised far above the Earth, and exploded in a soundless cataclysm of light and radiation that for a brief moment rivalled the sun in its intensity.

Satisfied that he had neutralised the radiation threat, Data began the long walk back to the Ninth Cave.

* * *

"What in the Mother's name was that?" Ayla said, looking at the sky.

"What was what?" Picard asked, joining her after Jondalar had gone to put the new blade away. Ayla had also given him Jonayla to put to bed, as the baby was still sleeping. Picard had been looking at the slivers of flint he had picked up off the ground, and had not seen what Ayla had.

"I don't know – somehow, it seemed as if there were two suns in the sky," Ayla said. "A sudden bright burst of light, across half the sky. What could it mean?"

"I would not care to guess its meaning," Picard said, not needing to. He knew only thing could have caused that, at this point in human history. "We each need to give it our own interpretation."

"But do you think it means the Mother is angry?" she asked nervously.

"Why would you think that?" Picard asked.

Ayla looked at him, seeing the concern on his face. There was something else there too. He seemed to know a good deal more about this than he was letting on. Since he was the One Who Serves for his own people, she decided he did in fact know what this meant, and was testing her. But there was no fear or worry on his face, so perhaps whatever this was, it wasn't dangerous. But, she asked herself, suppose he was wrong?

"I…I don't know," she said, feeling rather foolish for having panicked. "I've just been…worried these past few days. I have bad dreams. As if something bad is going to happen. But not to us, at least not yet."

"I hope nothing bad does happen," Picard said. "I will do what I can, but what I can do is limited. But do not worry too much about dreams. Live not in dreams but in contemplation of a reality that is perhaps the future, as a famous storyteller once said."

"What does that mean?" Ayla asked.

"It means that this, around us, the solid reality, is more important than dreams."

"That is a strange thing for One Who Serves to say," Ayla said, looking at Picard strangely. "Do you not believe dreams are important?"

"Yes, they are important. But we must not forget that real life is more important – that is the message. Dreams can be a guide, but nothing more. They do not define reality. It is our actions and our dreams that determine the future, not our dreams alone."

"What dreams do you have, Jean-Luc?" Ayla asked. She regretted it instantly, as a look of pain crossed the older man's face.

"Dreams of the past…bad ones, sometimes."

"Mine are bad sometimes too, but they are of the future."

"Ayla! Did you see that?" Marthona came up to them, pointing at the sky. "What was it?"

"I do not know," Ayla said. "A sign from the Mother, perhaps."

"Is it?" Marthona turned to Picard, questioning.

"It is very hard to interpret signs," Picard said. "It is my experience that when a sign means something serious, it will be unequivocal. If you need to ask, then it is not a sign, or at least not important."

"Perhaps," Marthona said, clearly not prepared to let it go that easily. "I am going to ask Zelandoni. I think you should talk with her as well when you are free, Ayla. This might have some bearing on what you told me by the river yesterday."

"Thank you, Marthona. I will," Ayla said. "I think it might too."

"Oh, you left this the last time you brought Jonayla over," Marthona added. She held out a long thin bone, pierced with several holes.

"Jonayla's flute! I was looking for this! I thought I must have left it with Joharran! Thank you!"

Picard looked at the bleached white bone Ayla was holding, marvelling. He had read about a few bones found in Palaeolithic graves, even Neanderthal ones, that might have been flutes, but because there was so little of the bone left, there was great controversy over whether they were flutes, or whether an animal had made bite holes in the bone. Here, at last, was incontrovertible proof.

"Do you like to play?" he asked Ayla.

She smiled. "Jonayla likes it, and if she likes to hear it, I like to play it. I should go and take this back now – Jondalar is looking after her, and he can play better than I can."

"Might…might I see it?" Picard asked hesitantly, drawn to the instrument by another of his dreams.

Ayla looked at him and shrugged. "Of course."

She handed it over, and Picard went to a stone seat just inside the southern cavern of Down River. Ayla joined him, and for a brief time he just sat there, silent and unmoving, gazing at the simple instrument. Then he gently fingered the bone flute, feeling the holes, the rough surface. Finally, compelled by some inner urge, he put it to his lips and gently blew. A soft plaintive sound escaped, echoing in the uneven rock chamber. Picard placed his fingers on the holes, and began to play a simple tune, one that he had played many times before, in another lifetime.

Ayla watched in awe, marvelling at the ornate sounds the old man was able to coax out of such a simple instrument. She herself had no more ability to play than to sing, so to her this was true magic.

"Where did you learn to play?" she asked when Picard had finished his tune and had put the flute down. She could see that it had moved him a great deal; when he played there was an expression of great loss and sadness in his face. It meant something important to him, she knew, and perhaps to her.

"It was a long time ago," Picard said, letting his mind drift back to his memories of Kataan. "It was… it was not me. I… I don't know how to explain this. It was someone else's memory, someone else playing that flute, a man called Kamin, a man I was and yet was not. A vision of a man's life that I lived, for many decades."

Ayla remained silent, watching him as he trailed off, deep in thought. She knew it was an immensely powerful vision quest that could share an entire lifetime. Most visions were just fleeting glimpses of other memories and ideas. Even Creb and the others, powerful as they were, could only tap brief, unconnected moments when they took the Root. Were there other, more powerful substances out there that could clarify her visions? Perhaps then she could see what they really meant – the images were so fast, so strange, that she couldn't begin to make sense of them otherwise. She sat and waited for him to continue, sensing that he wanted to talk about it.

"It was like a dream, but was not," Picard eventually added. "Through some means that even now we do not fully understand, I was put in a trance and relived another person's life. Every day, every moment, every person around me was real, was alive – I was that person. I was Kamin – and Kamin is still part of me. But it was not us that called out to them: the vision was given to me from a dying people. Their world was ending, and they had nowhere to go. But somehow, we do not know how, they managed to save the memories of one man, which they sent out into the cosmos. And those memories found me, and so as long as I still remember them, they are never truly gone. They remain within me, like an inner light."

Ayla sat still, pondering the meaning of this. His memories – his experiences with a dying people, who had given their knowledge through a vision to another. At that moment, she knew. It was the same. There was no longer any doubt. The stranger from a distant land was not here by accident.

"Jean-Luc," she said softly, "can I ask you about my dreams?"

.

* * *

**Notes:**

Hope there aren't too many heinous errors with the flint scene - I based it on a couple of scenes in TMH and SOS, though I have never really followed the knapping scenes that well - it's something that needs to be seen, really.

The Nuclear Doppler Effect is real, but not in the way I described it. I actually made it up completely, but it seems that there is another phenomenon called that name. The rest of the technobabble is, as usual, real terms used badly.

"Live not in dreams but in contemplation of a reality that is perhaps the future" is from Rainer Maria Rilke, _Selected Letters_.

Picard's mention of his vision is of course from the episode "The Inner Light," in my not-really-humble opinion, one of the finest Trek episodes ever made. It's not vital to have seen it for this story (I hope) but if you have seen it you'll appreciate all the more just how much it affected him.


	10. Sundive

**10\. Sundive**

"Right, the simulation checks out. Finally," La Forge said, wiping his forehead. "I gotta hand it to you: you, Doctor Brahms, are a genius."

"Yes, I know," Brahms said, completely seriously, but then she gave a quick smile. "But let's be honest Geordi – you don't get to be Chief Engineer of the Federation flagship by being a moron either."

"Well, at least not all the time," La Forge allowed. "Shall we tell Commander Riker the good news?"

"By all means," Brahms said. "And then, Geordi, you can cook me that dinner you promised."

La Forge grinned, and pressed his communicator.

"Commander Riker, we've completed the simulations. We should be able to begin the slingshot procedure when we reach Sirius."

"Excellent work Geordi. Report to the bridge in two hours time then. Riker out."

"See you then, Commander. La Forge out."

"Well, Geordi – what about that meal you promised me?" Brahms said, giving him a coquettish smile.

He turned to the young woman on the other side of the console, and grinned.

"I have an idea. Why eat in my quarters, when…. Computer! End program La Forge Beta Six and run program, uh, program La Forge Three-One."

The mockup of the engineering bridge vanished, to be replaced by a tropical beach scene. La Forge and Brahms found themselves on the terrace of an elegant resort, filled with people of all species. Beside them was a table set for two, with a small brazier in the centre.

"Oh Geordi – the Astra Resort on Risa! How did you know that was where the Daystrom Conference is going to be held?"

"Pure guesswork," La Forge grinned. "Well, that, and I asked the Daystrom Institute. Hold it one moment. Be right back! Computer, exit!"

Brahms looked after La Forge as he hurried out of the Holodeck, unable to keep a smile off her face. He was back in a few moments, carrying a large box.

"Voila! Two fresh-caught Alaskan crayfish!"

"Are – are they real?" Brahms said, looking inside the box very briefly.

"Absolutely!" Geordi said with relish. "Commander Riker's grandfather sent over enough for the entire senior staff the moment he heard the Enterprise was in the system. Take a look at these babies…" he trailed off, taking a look at the feebly-moving creatures inside the chilled box.

"Yes, they do seem…rather fresh," Brahms admitted, turning a little pale. "Uh…how are we going to eat them?"

"Fried with butter and garlic – simple, but good. Don't want to overdo the sauces. Let the full flavour come through," Geordi said cheerfully.

"Are – they still alive?" Brahms asked, a slight catch in her voice.

"Um, I think so," Geordi said. He looked in the box again, seeing the feelers moving sluggishly. He looked back at Brahms, then at the crayfish. "I must admit, I wasn't quite expecting them to be this fresh…."

"No, nor was I," Brahms said. "How are you going to…you know, kill them…?"

Geordi looked at her, then back at the two crayfish. There was a long silence. He looked at Brahms again, who was still somewhat greenish, then back in the box.

"Uh, Leah," he began nervously, "how about pasta with garlic-butter sauce instead?"

"Much better," Brahms said firmly, and La Forge put the lid back on the box with an audible sigh of relief.

"I think these two should go back to Alaska," he said quietly. "Computer! Two plates of Funghini alla Griglia, please!"

* * *

"Ayla," Picard said seriously, "I do not know what to think of your dreams. Or your visions. You have told me some remarkable things, and I am having difficulty assimilating them. They sound…beyond anything I would have expected. I need to discuss this with Data first."

"Will you also want to talk with Zelandoni?" Ayla asked, somewhat nervously. She didn't know if she wanted the spiritual leader of the Ninth Cave to know everything she had just told Picard. But to her relief, Picard shook his head.

"No, I don't think so. While I am sure she is a wise and insightful person, she simply doesn't possess the specialised knowledge that my friend Data does," he said.

Ayla looked at Picard carefully, wondering what the real reason for his reticence was. He avoided her gaze, and instead carefully examined the flute.

"These people you lived with," Ayla began slowly, "they were real to you, weren't they?"

"As real as anyone I see around me today," Picard said. "But I know it was all an illusion, yet not. It was real, but not for me."

"And they have all gone, haven't they?" Ayla asked. "The people in your vision, they have gone. Just like the people in my visions. Creb, and Iza – their memories live in me, my memories of the Clan, but they knew – Creb knew – that they were dying. And you say that where you live, there are none?"

"None at all," Picard said. "I have never even seen one. Why they vanished is one of our great mysteries."

Ayla looked at his profile as he started down at the bone instrument. Any doubts she had had about telling him of her visions were erased when she had seen his reaction to her childhood. She had told him all about Creb of course, and Iza and Brun, but instead of being repulsed that she was raised by the Clan, he was fascinated. He had shown more interest in them and their ways than even Jondalar, who had slowly grown to respect them, but still, Ayla knew, was not fully accepting. But there was not a trace of disgust on Picard's face when she told him how Iza had taken her in, how she had been taught by the crippled and half-blind Mog-Ur. Instead there was wondering, and again the feeling of deep sadness and unpassable gulfs.

"Why have you come here, Jean-Luc," she asked eventually. "Have you been sent to test me, to help me overcome my visions?"

The older man looked at her for a time, and shook his head. "As much as we might like to think the universe is arranged for our benefit, Ayla, it is not. We are less to it than the fleas on a dog – a wolf."

Picard looked at the young woman beside him, still thinking. Her visions had sounded fantastical, almost beyond belief, but he had seen far stranger things before, and was hesitant to dismiss them outright. The concern over her people – the Neanderthals, and Picard marvelled at how they had brought her up as one of them, and at the revelations concerning their memories and brains she had offered – was obvious: such a people would realise how they were gradually losing ground to the newcomers, and even if their concept of the future was not as developed as the Cro-Magnons, and their ability to adapt much less, the wisest of them would have some understanding. No, it was the story of her experimentation with the root-based drug in the cave ceremony that disturbed Picard: such far-reaching ancestral memory went against everything the Federation knew about the brain and memory. And worse yet was the part where Ayla had left Creb behind and seen the future: landscapes, laid out not with the randomness of nature, but in regular patterns. Boxlike structures that reared up from the earth, and long ribbons of stone, along which strange animals crawled at great speeds; huge birds that flew without flapping their wings. Then more scenes, so strange she couldn't comprehend them. She had described them as best she could, but her vocabulary was too limited, her experience too confined. But Picard recognised her descriptions, knew what those scenes were, and it disturbed him greatly. How was it possible for her to see such scenes? There was only one explanation he could think of, and he found it profoundly unsettling.

* * *

"Commander, we're ready for the sun-dive," La Forge said. On the viewscreen, the white dwarf star of Sirius B was glowing brightly.

"Is Dr Brahms ready in Engineering?" Riker asked.

"Brahms here, Commander. Ready for your order," came her voice from the speakers.

Riker looked at the screen, at the blinding white furnace that awaited them. He had been taken over the simulations a dozen times the previous evening, but there was still a deep pit of fear in his stomach. His only consolation was that if anything went wrong, they'd be dead quite literally before they even knew it. Was he dooming the entire crew by being pig-headed and stubborn? Couldn't Starfleet and the Temporal Investigations Unit from the 29th Century get them out?

"Will, this is why you're not in the captain's chair," he told himself. "Too afraid to risk the lives of the crew, too afraid to make decisions. I can do this. I must do this. It will work. I have the finest minds in Starfleet working it out; I have the finest crew in the galaxy ready to carry it out. All they need is a leader. Come on Will – you can do this. You can do it. Make it so…."

He sat down in the captain's chair, and said just one word: "Engage."

Instantly the massively powerful warp engines of the huge starship surged into life, sending their mysterious energies into the warp nacelles, forming the nested warp shells that powered all Federation faster-than-light craft. The Enterprise gathered speed exponentially, hurling itself towards the star ahead.

"Warp nine-point-nine," La Forge read out. "Now entering red zone. Engine overload in five minutes."

"Come on," Riker muttered to himself as Sirius B loomed ever-larger on the screen. "How long?" he called out.

"Forty seconds until breakaway," La Forge said. "Thirty…Twenty…Ten…."

"Red alert! All hands brace for impact!" Riker shouted. The bridge lights dimmed and the warning light strips began pulsating. Riker looked at the readouts in front of him.

"Three…two…one," La Forge called out.

"Now!" Riker shouted as the ship lurched sideways. He could hear muffled shrieks and groans from the hull as it was subjected to unimaginable pressures, trying to go in four directions at once. He gritted his teeth as the vibrations increased, and the view out of the screen blurred and narrowed, forming a tunnel where they could see both ahead of them and behind them at the same time. Space was warping, twisting, pulled like so much taffy at a county fair as the ship's engines dug a hole through the very fabric of existence.

"Time!" Riker yelled.

"Two minutes until engine shutdown!"

Riker could hear La Forge's voice as if from the bottom of a well. He glanced over at his Chief Engineer, whose image was blurry, distorted by the minute leakage into the ship of the tremendous energies outside.

"Commander, we're ten millennia into the past!"

"How's our status?" Riker had to shout to be heard above the din of the engines on maximum overload and the ship at its design limits.

"Green across the board! Structural integrity field loss on desks twelve to fourteen – within tolerances."

Riker gritted his teeth as the shaking intensified.

"Twenty thousand! Commander, the engines are overheating!"

"How much longer?"

"I'll have to shut down in thirty seconds or we'll lose the warp core!"

"Keep it together, Geordi! Come on, old girl, fly!"

The tunnel ahead of them narrowed even further, and suddenly a console erupted in sparks.

"We've lost the rear lateral phaser array!" Worf called out.

"How much longer?"

"Five thousand years…. Three thousand years…"

"Stand by for full shutdown!"

"Two…one…five centuries…one… Commander, now!"

"Brace for impact! Full reverse engines!" Riker shouted.

"Engines on full reverse sir!"

The tunnel ahead suddenly collapsed in a blinding blaze of white light as the Enterprise's warp engines were suddenly slammed into reverse. The entire ship shook violently, and La Forge and Worf, standing at the rear of the bridge, were thrown to the ground. Several other consoles exploded, and the air was filled with the acrid smell of ozone and burning plasteel. Gradually the shaking stopped, and Riker's head began to clear. He looked around, and took a deep breath.

"Casualty report!"

"Three broken bones, several reports of minor injuries," came Crusher's voice. "Try not to do this too often, Commander."

With his primary responsibility taken care of, Riker turned to his Chief Engineer.  
"Well, La Forge. Where—I mean _when_ are we?"

"Just a moment, commander. We need to check the starfields. Here we go…." His face split into a huge grin. "We made it Commander! Welcome to stardate negative 32,012,920!"

"Incredible! The day after the Captain and Commander Data arrived! Well done Geordi. Very impressive indeed."

"Don't thank me, Commander. It was Dr Brahms who did the fine-tuning. If it was up to me, we'd probably have arrived in the Renaissance."

"Far too modest, Geordi," came Brahms' voice through the intercom. "Commander Riker, we need to power down the entire warp core and replace one of the dilithium crystals before we can head to Earth. I also want to run some tests to make sure the engines survived. We have to repair the rest of the damage too, but that's minor."

"How long will that all take?"

"A few hours," she said. "Then we can head for Earth."

"That will take a couple of days," La Forge added. "And then we have to find them."

"How?" Troi asked. "It's a big planet."

"We would be able to find their shuttle very easily," Worf said confidently. "This is not a problem."

"Exactly," Riker added. "Geordi, take the Enterprise out to one AU from Sirius. Then you have permission to take the engines offline for six hours. After that I want to head to Earth. I don't want to leave the captain and Commander Data in the Ice Age a moment longer than I have to."

* * *

"Captain." Data came up the bank to them at an unhurried pace. "Might I have a word with you in private?"

"Of course, Commander," Picard replied. "Ayla, I need to discuss a few things with my companion."

"Could I discuss my visions more with you later?" Ayla asked, sensing that somehow, on some level, he could understand them. "Perhaps you and Data could share the last meal of the day with us, and then we can talk."

"Thank you for the offer. We would be glad to," Picard said, standing up. He wasn't sure what he could tell her, as he himself was far from understanding what she was seeing, and why. And he knew he must not place ideas in her head that were not there to begin with. It was a fine line he was walking, needing to extract as much about the visions as she knew, but without asking any potentially leading questions that would destroy the validity of her evidence.

Picard sighed, and followed Data out of the abri. The two Starfleet officers went down the riverbank a little way, past the small groups of people working.

"I gather you had to eject the warp core, Mr Data," he said when they were out of earshot.

"That is correct, captain. It was leaking chronometric radiation, and the anti-matter seals were badly damaged. I hope I did the correct thing, sir."

"You did, Mr Data. You merely caused a slight bit of confusion when a second sun briefly shone over Ice Age France."

"I should have transported the warp core farther," Data said, his face modulating into a carefully-calculated crestfallen expression that he knew would be appropriate.

"No harm done," Picard said. "After all, comets and meteors produce similar effects, and these people have lived with that. What did you manage to salvage from the shuttle?"

Data took out the bag and opened it. Picard rummaged through it quickly, then passed it back to Data.

"That should help. The sub-space radio in particular should come in useful if the Enterprise manages to get here."

"You think there will be a problem, sir?"

"It's a huge jump," Picard said seriously. "Far bigger than anything ever done before. But even if the Enterprise can't make it, Starfleet has a temporal displacement drive on loan from the Department of Temporal Investigations in the 29th century that should be able to reach us. Although I have no idea when: if they haven't rescued us by now then either they're having problems, or…"

"Or else what, sir?"

"Or else Admiral Necheyav is going to make good on her threat to assign me long-term shore leave, Mr Data," Picard finished. He looked around, and gave a gallic shrug. "There are worse places to spend a holiday, however."

"Indeed sir," Data said. "At least here you will not be roped into a dangerous mission by Vash to find some long-lost artefact."

"No indeed," Picard agreed. "That was probably not the best captain's holiday ever, at least from Dr Crusher's point of view. It wasn't exactly restful, after all."

"Jean-Luc!"

Picard turned, seeing the tall figure of Jondalar striding towards them.

"Greetings, Jondalar," Picard said politely. "Data, close the bag and keep it out of sight," he added quietly.

"I thought you might like this," Jondalar said, coming up to them and holding out a leather-wrapped bundle. Picard took it with a slight bow. He carefully unwrapped it, then drew his breath in. Among the folds of the soft leather was nestled a small slim blade of flint so dark it was almost pure black. He picked it up, the sun scintillating off the ridges and making the translucent edges glow.

"It's incredible," Picard breathed. "But I have nothing to give you in return."

"Just tell your people about us," Jondalar grinned. "We're always interested in finding new groups to trade with, meeting new peoples."

"As are we," Picard said. "You could say that is our mission."

"I thought you were here to see the caves of Doni's Deep?" Jondalar asked, confused.

"We are," Picard said. "But that is a personal interest for me, alone. However as a representative of my people, we are always looking for new encounters, new friends, as we have found in you and the people of the Ninth Cave."

"Journeys and encounters with other peoples can bring great joy, and great sadness," Jondalar said. "On my own I gained a mate but lost a brother."

"I share your pain," Picard agreed sadly. It was only recently he had made peace with his own brother, and the thought of losing him was not something he wanted to dwell on. And he was still not sure how Ayla had managed to call off a full-grown cave lion, even if it was one she had raised from a cub. Perhaps, he thought, they were like cheetahs, the only big cat that could be tamed easily. "However, you gained more than you realise. You gained knowledge of other lands, other peoples. That knowledge is something we ourselves seek. Knowledge brings understanding of the mysteries of life," he finished, looking at the way the sunlight sparkled off his blade. "This will allow me to always remember you and your people. But for how long will you remember me and mine?"

Jondalar looked at the short man with a puzzled air. Why such introspection? He didn't really expect such a reaction. It was a fine blade, to be sure, but nothing that special. Wymez or Dalanar could make something much more impressive. He shrugged, and put the matter out of his mind. He knew that the ways of Those Who Served were often beyond his understanding. Wandering off, he soon put the questions about the visitors out of his mind.

"Captain," Data said when Jondalar had gone. "I would like your permission to set up the sub-space radio. It may help any rescue mission locate us."

"I'm not sure, Data," Picard mused. He looked at the flashing lights on the device, and ran a hand over his scalp. "Not in the cave – it would be too easily found. How are radiation levels around the shuttle?"

"With the warp core ejected, they are within normal parameters," Data said.

"Perhaps you had better leave the sub-space radio in the shuttle," Picard said slowly. "In fact," he added, "it might be better to leave our comm badges there as well. It would not do to have a disembodied voice suddenly speaking from our chests."

"I have brought these along," Data said, taking out a couple of small devices.

"Ah, subcutaneous implants," Picard said. "We used them when we had to associate with the bronze-age Mintakans. Good idea, Mr Data. With these any transmissions we intercept will not be heard outside our skulls."

"I will be able to tune my internal circuitry to act in the same way," Data stated. "I should also advise keeping our comm badges but setting them to mute," he added. "I can easily set up a relay from the sub-space radio in the shuttle to your implant."

"Make it so," Picard said, taking one of the implants as Data headed back to the shuttle. The vast bulk of the small device he held was the delivery mechanism – the implant itself was barely the size of a grain of rice. Holding it to just behind his ear, he pressed the button and felt a short sharp sting as, with a brief hiss, the implant was smoothly injected just underneath his skin.

"Jean-Luc." Ayla's voice interrupted him just as he was putting the delivery device in a fold of his garments. She was carrying a large bundle, out of which Picard could see some plants sticking out. "I was just going to see the horses. Would you be interested?"

"Horses? Of course," Picard said. His memories of their first encounter were somewhat hazy due to the painkillers, but he definitely remembered seeing her approach them on a horse. He had thought it perfectly natural at the time, but now he began to wonder. Horses, in the Palaeolithic? Weren't they not supposed to have been domesticated far later? Ten thousand years ago was what he had been taught, not thirty. Suddenly intensely curious, he eagerly followed the tall blonde woman as they made their way up the river and headed along a side stream until they came to a flat grassy area.

Ayla whistled, and soon Picard heard the sounds of two sets of galloping hooves. A pair of small stocky horses raced into view, and made a beeline for Ayla. She laughed and hugged them, particularly the lighter-shaded one. Opening her bundle, she took out some plants and grains, and began feeding the horses.

"This is Whinney," she explained, indicating the dun-yellow one and handing Picard a long leafy vegetable. "She loves this. Let her feed from your hand. She also loves the grain."

"Hello, Whinney," Picard said, gently rubbing the horse's neck. It was rather smaller than the thoroughbred Arabians he was used to; built for the cold steppes, it was barrel-chested and sturdy, and was already growing a shaggy winter coat.

"And this is Racer," Ayla added, indicating Jondalar's dark-brown stallion. She fed him too, the younger horse guzzling his treat down almost before she had it out of the bag. She was hiding it, but in truth she was amazed at Picard's reaction to the animals. She could tell by how he acted around them, how he scratched their necks and ears, how he talked gently to them, that not only was he not surprised by her having horses, but he obviously had his own.

"Would you like a ride?" she asked Picard after the plants and grain were all eaten, eyeing him carefully. She was not at all surprised to see excitement, not shock, on his face.

"Do you have saddles?" he asked. The word was unfamiliar to her, but she knew what he meant.

"I do not use one, though Jondalar does." She dug into the bundle she was carrying, and pulled out Racer's riding blanket. The brown stallion trotted up to her, recognising the smell, and eager for a run. He was anxious about the stranger, who did not smell familiar, but Ayla's relaxed attitude, and the stranger's expert and very generous scratching, reassured him that he was in no danger.

Ayla fixed Racer's leather blanket over him, and then leapt lightly onto the mare's back. Picard awkwardly mounted the stallion, and sat astride him. There was a crude rope halter and rein arrangement, and he took that in his hands. Ayla looked at him, wondering why he seemed so unfamiliar with the reins. Perhaps he too does not use a riding blanket, she wondered. But then why ask for one? Or was this "saddle" he mentioned something different? She knew it meant "seat on a horse," but perhaps it was not quite the same. But the look of exhilaration on Picard's face as he sat astride Racer drove all speculation out of her mind. Sometimes it was good to just run free, uncaring, with the wind in your hair. Urging Whinney forward, she headed up the river valley, Racer's hooves sounding just behind her as he followed his dam.

* * *

"Commander, we have restored warp drive," La Forge said, pushing the final locking pin into place in the dilithium chamber. "She's ready whenever you are."

"Excellent work, Geordi," Riker said up on the bridge. He turned to the conn. "Maximum warp."

"Heading, sir?"

"Earth." Riker settled himself down in the captain's chair as the starfield blurred and streaked.

"Commander, even at maximum warp it will still take two days to reach where Earth is now," Worf said. "That will mean we arrive three days after they did, at the earliest."

"I am well aware of that, Lieutenant," Riker said. "There is nothing we can do about that, however."

"We could attempt a slingshot around the sun to send us back a week," Worf suggested.

"I don't want to risk any more time jumps than I have to," Riker said.

"Besides," Geordi interjected from Main Engineering, "the minimum we could jump is about fifty years anyway. Perhaps we could jump back just over fifty and then jump forward the same amount minus two or three days, but it would be tricky."

"I only want to risk that if we find that something has happened to the captain or Commander Data," Riker said. "All they have to do is camp out in the shuttle for a few days – they should be fine."

"If you say so, Commander," Worf said, grunting the words. He looked out at the viewscreen, and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of his console. Two days. Space was big, even the relatively small area near Earth. Worf found himself wondering what the primitive Earth would be like. All he had known was the tamed and thoroughly domesticated Earth of the 24th century. While he had complete respect for the achievements of humans, his Klingon nature sometimes rebelled at their pacifist ways. But he knew that Earth before the Federation was anything but pacifist – in some ways it was almost as warlike as his own people. He decided it would be interesting to meet some of these early humans, and perhaps they could share stories of great battles they had been in. He stood proudly and watched the ever-changing patterns of light as the great ship flew on through the inky blackness of space, towards a tiny distant blue marble that one day would be known as Earth.

.

* * *

**NOTES**

I probably got some details about the horses wrong, especially as regards to Racer's setup. I couldn't find anything about reins, just references to guide ropes and halters. I think JMA should add comprehensive indexes to her next books...


	11. Time is the Fire

**11\. Time is the Fire**

"That was a wonderful ride, thank you Ayla," Picard said as he dismounted Racer. An aptly-named animal, he thought. While nothing compared with the racehorses of his own time, which were the product of centuries of breeding, he was still capable of a remarkable turn of speed, and his rugged stamina would eventually enable his descendants to carry the Mongol hordes across Asia and almost into Europe. Accepting a large dried thistle from Ayla, Picard awkwardly curried the animal down. As he was doing so a smaller grey horse trotted up to them, neighing loudly.

"I'm sorry, Grey," Ayla said to the newcomer. "I shouldn't have forgotten you. You wanted to run with your mother, didn't you?" She gave the yearling a final affectionate rub and then turned back to Picard. "It is getting late. We should be returning to the Cave."

"Yes, I agree," Picard said. The chill of the late autumn air made his breath steam, and a sudden breeze chilled his face. He glanced back at the horses, who were grazing peacefully.

"What do you do with them in the winter?" he asked.

"We have a shelter for them," Ayla explained. "I had a similar one when I lived with the Mamutoi. We added a section to their earth-lodge."

"They do not live in caves?" Picard asked.

"No, the land is too flat. There are not many areas with caves nearby," Ayla said. "So they build long dwellings of mammoth bones and earth and hides, in which all the hearths can fit."

"Mammoth bones," Picard said slowly. He recalled reading about similar early houses, common in the sub-arctic tundra. "How close were you to the ice?" he asked.

"We went up there once," Ayla said. "To hunt mammoths. It was huge – a massive, towering wall of ice taller than any tree."

"I would have loved to have seen it," Picard said. "And to see a mammoth – a mammoth hunt," he added, covering up his momentary slip. But Ayla had noticed it, and it made her wonder more about this mysterious stranger.

Data came up to them as they neared the Ninth Cave's gaping mouth.

"Captain, did you enjoy your ride?"

"Indeed I did, Mr Data," Picard said. "The best ride in years." And it was true: he hadn't been on a real horse for a long time, and there was something lacking in holodeck simulations. The knowledge that underneath you was a real animal, the feeling of partnership, of working in tandem, could not be recreated with the illusions of photons and force-beams.

"Will you join us for the evening meal, Data?" Ayla asked.

Data gave a brief look at Picard, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

"I would be honoured," he said. "Although I have already eaten, I will join you and your mate."

"I regret we cannot provide any food for the meal," Picard said as they made their way back up to Ayla's hearth. "Perhaps we should have gone hunting instead of riding."

"No, we have enough," Ayla said. "You do not have to worry. And your company and conversation will be all that we require."

"Your generosity is accepted most gratefully," Picard said.

They passed into the small hut, and sat down. In a few moments Ayla had a fire going, and Jondalar, who had been playing with Jonayla, went into a back area and brought out a large leather-wrapped haunch of deer.

"We were saving this for a special occasion," he said, "and this is as special as any. Last night you were our guests. Tonight, I hope, you will share with us as friends."

"We are honoured you consider us so," Picard said. "Yes, I would very much like to be your friend."

Ayla busied herself with her herbs, and soon the smell of roasting venison filled the small room. The four of them sat in contended silence for the most part as the meat cooked. Picard found himself drawn to the flames, watching them leap and flicker, the wood hissing and snapping beneath it, striving to reach the flesh suspended above them and never quite making it. He had sat around fires before, even campfires out in the wilderness, but this was different. This was no affectation of primitive living: this was the reality that governed tens of millennia of human existence. The quest for fire, the first step towards mastery of the environment, was one of the most significant in history. One of the four elements in classical Greek mythology, or one of the five of Chinese, the ancients considered fire one of the fundamental building-blocks of the cosmos. For some eight hundred thousand years of human history, fire had been vital to the lives of men and women. Throughout the ages, it had been seen as a manifestation of spiritual or supernatural forces. An item so valuable that it had to be stolen from the gods, who were angered at its loss, for it enabled men to become equal to the deities, shake off their power. And lead to their overthrow.

In his artificial cocoon of technology, driven by forces vastly more powerful and more dangerous than the simple chemical combustion of flame, it was all too easy, Picard reflected, to think of fire as a quaint relic, an item of decoration with no practical value. Perhaps it was like the leather-bound books he kept in his ready room: there was something far more satisfying about reading physical words, printed on a real page, than as ephemeral photons on a computer screen. This was real. This was fire, as it was meant to be.

Ayla watched Picard closely as she stirred a large skin pot of soup. He seemed mesmerised by the flames, and there was a look of regret on his face. No, not regret, she decided. Something else. A remote sadness that she could not explain. A sense of loss, though she had no idea what it was regarding.

"Woman, I am just about ready for some meat," Jondalar said, interrupting her thoughts. "Pass me the knife."

Ayla handed him a slim flint blade and he carved off a strip of meat, the juice dripping down into the fire where it sizzled and smoked. Holding the meat in a flat wooden platter, he greedily wolfed it down. Ayla took the knife from him, and offered her guests some, and then served the soup.

When they had finished the meal, she asked Jondalar to go and give the scraps to Wolf.

"Data, would you like to meet the wolf," the blond man asked as he stood up. "Jean-Luc has already met him, but you have not."

"I would be most interested," Data said, rising smoothly to his feet.

"Then come and meet Wolf," Jondalar said, holding the door open.

"With your permission, captain," Data said. Picard nodded.

"Go ahead. Take your time."

"Thank you sir," the android said, and the two of them slipped out into the darkness.

When they had left, Ayla turned to the older man.

"I have told you of my visions," she said. "Would you be able to tell me now what they mean?"

"Uh, I'll see what I can do," Picard said cautiously. "Can you wait until Data returns? I would like to get his opinion as well."

"Of course," Ayla said, glad he was taking a serious interest. She sat back quietly, fiddling with her amulet, in a sort of absent-minded plea to her totem to help her with Picard that she was barely conscious of making. In a few moments the door opened again, and Data and Jondalar stepped in, with Wolf in tow.

"Good evening, captain," Data said. "Wolf is a fine animal. Ayla was remarkable in being able to tame him so well."

"Ayla is remarkable in many ways," Jondalar said. "Your friend Data is also rather remarkable. He seemed to know just how to scratch Wolf in the right spots. Yet he says he has never seen a wolf this close before."

"Perhaps he just has a way with animals," Picard said. "He has an animal companion of his own, Spot."

"Data has an animal friend as well?" Ayla asked, surprised.

"Yes," Picard replied. "Not a wolf though – something much smaller."

"What?"

"Uh… an animal like Baby, your lion, but much much smaller."

"I have never seen anything like that," Ayla said. "You do not mean a baby lion?"

"No, just a smaller one. About this size," Picard said, indicating with his hands appropriately.

"That is so small!" Ayla gasped, unable to believe her eyes. "I would love to meet one! Where can you find such animals?"

"Far away from here, unfortunately," Picard said. The wild desert cats that were the distant ancestors of Spot were found in northern Africa, and would not be tamed for another twenty millennia. Or at least that was the theory – but then the same theories held that Ayla should not have tamed a wolf and a horse either, so Picard was forced to wonder if there weren't perhaps people at this time who had, in isolated and widely-separated incidents, tamed cats and welcomed them to their hearths and homes. "That reminds me," he added. "Have you ever seen the lions with the large front teeth?"

"The dirk-toothed tigers? Once, when I lived in my valley with Jondalar, before we met the Mamutoi. There was a big fire on the grasslands, and many animals died. I went to gather their meat, and I was not alone."

"Did he – were you attacked?"

Ayla shook her head. "I think he wanted to. But I drove him away with my sling. A stone or two on the nose made him change his mind. There was enough for everyone, anyway."

"Smilodon," Picard breathed. "Or the local equivalent. I've only seen their skeletons. A real sabre-toothed tiger – what a sight."

"They are not common around here I think," Ayla said. "Jondalar told me he thought they were only legends. But I saw one. They are real."

"Oh, very real," Picard agreed. "The long sabres of Smilodon are designed to slice through the main blood vessels in the neck and close off the windpipe in one bite." He demonstrated with his fingers and a bone. "They just rip out the entire windpipe, and the animal dies. Very efficient."

"I thought you'd never seen one," Ayla said, puzzled.

"No, but I-I have heard that is how they hunted," Picard said.

"You must hear many stories of other lands," Ayla said. Picard laughed.

"That is true, definitely."

"Could you tell us some?" Jondalar asked, leaning forward eagerly, one arm around the wolf.

"Not right now, Jondalar. There is something else I want to ask Jean-Luc right now, as he is One Who Serves. I want to ask him about my visions."

"Perhaps you could repeat them first so that Data can hear them as well," Picard said.

"I would be honoured to hear them," Data said smoothly, his face attentive.

"Perhaps some of Marthona's wine while we listen," Jondalar said, pulling out a bladder made from the stomach of a deer. He pulled out the wooden stopper, and poured four generous measures out into horn mugs. Picard took the proffered drink, and inhaled the bouquet with a practised nose. His own family had been making wine not too far from here for generations, and he was eager to try this Palaeolithic vintage. The nose was sharp and rather tannic – to be expected, he realised. They didn't have oak barrels to slowly mature the wine in, and this was probably rather young as well. He took a sip, and barely managed to keep from making a face. It was unpleasantly acidic, with a raw burning sensation and a strong taste of grapes. He put the rest of the wine gently down, and turned his attention to Ayla.

Somewhat hesitantly at first, but with growing confidence, the young blonde woman recited the all-too-familiar pattern of the visions she had been seeing since that fateful night in the cave after drinking the sacred Root mixture. When she finished, there was a long silence. Ayla sat back on her heels and looked at Picard, who, after having given the wine another few sips, was wiping his mouth carefully with a thin strip of absorbent leather and not looking at her.

"Jean-Luc? Can you tell me about my visions, what they mean? Why I have them." she asked him eventually, sensing his reluctance, but unsure of the reason for it.

"I warn you, Ayla," Picard said. "I do not know how much I can tell you about them. I am not an expert in this area."

"But they are – they are about the future, are they not?"

"From what you have told me – I honestly do not know. I do not know how you can have these visions, how you have seen these things."

"But you must have some idea," she pressed him. "I know you recognised my visions. You know what I saw," she said. "I was in the deep past, then growing along with the Clan, and then – somehow – I shot past them, into the future. Why can you not tell me more? Is this a test? Do I need to prove myself worthy to hear your wisdom?"

Picard made a slight grimace, and Ayla felt a slight rise of annoyance at his reluctance. He clearly knew more than he was telling her, and she wanted to know what – and why he wouldn't tell her. Did he need to test her more? Was that it? She decided to ask him as much, straight out.

"Please believe me, Ayla," Picard said. "I am not trying to test you. But I do not know how much I can tell you – it could be dangerous for you to know too much."

"Dangerous?" Her eyes flashed. "In what way?"

"What you are now, what you have – it could all be changed. Your future could vanish, and you would go the way of the Old Ones, the ones you call The Clan."

"How can you know this?" she demanded. "Have you seen the future?"

"I've said too much," Picard said. "I'm sorry, Ayla, but I cannot risk telling you any more at this stage. When we find out the reasons for your visions, perhaps I will be able to tell you some more."

"You've seen the future," Ayla said, suddenly understanding. One glance at his face confirmed her suspicions. He was good, but she was better – she knew to look for signs so small that most people were not even aware they made them. "You've seen it," she repeated slowly. "You've had the visions as well, only you understand them – that must be it," she finished.

Picard said nothing. He only sat there, biting his lip and looking at her sadly.

"And the future is bad – that's the reason you won't tell me, isn't it? The Clan vanish – I know that; it's what I learnt from Creb. But there must be something else. Something…." Struck by a sudden horrible premonition, she looked at Picard carefully as she asked her next question. "Am I going to die? Do you know when I will die?"

To her relief, he shook his head. "I'm glad to say I have no idea when you will die. You will die of course – we all die, in the end – but I have no idea when."

She could tell he was telling the truth, and relaxed somewhat. But it still troubled her. He clearly knew something about the future, and wasn't able to tell her. Why? Did it concern her? Her – her daughter?

"Jean-Luc, if – if you know anything about what will happen to Jonayla…" she began, but Picard stopped her.

"Ayla, please trust me when I say I know nothing about what will happen to you or your children. I hope you all live long and fruitful lives, but I have no way to tell. I cannot tell your future, not for even a day."

"Then what is it?" she demanded. "I know you have a fear of the future – not just of telling me about my visions, but about the future itself. Something bad will happen – your face shows it. I know it!"

Ayla stood up and stalked out of the hut. She felt incredibly frustrated, and what was even more annoying was that she could tell that Picard wanted to tell her, but was unable for whatever reasons his own people had forced on him. _What could be so secret_, she asked herself. She swayed, feeling slightly dizzy, and put a hand to her forehead. _No sense in getting angry over what you cannot control, she tried to tell herself. He wants me to know, I can feel it. I just have to find out why exactly he cannot tell me – what I must do to be allowed to know_. She headed outside, and looked up at the stars, the heath-fires of the ancestors blazing in the heavens for all eternity, and took a deep breath.

From the doorway of the hut, Picard watched her, wishing he could tell her more. But until he knew more about what was causing her visions, he dared not risk a gross violation of the Prime Directive. A slight noise made him turn. It was Data, Jondalar behind her.

"Don't worry about Ayla," the blond giant said. "She knows you do not mean for her to suffer. I am sure you have your reasons why you cannot tell her more."

"We do," Picard said sadly. "And there is nothing I can do about them now. Perhaps when Data and I have discussed them, we might be able to say more. But to speak now, with unfounded guesses, would be worse than saying nothing. We have to know why she is having these visions before we can interpret them properly. I am sorry Ayla has to go through this, but it is better this way. We have learned from our mistakes that it must be this way," Picard added distantly, looking out at Ayla's silhouetted figure. The moon was nearly full, and her hair shone silver in its light. He sighed, and turned to Jondalar. "We should be getting to bed, I think. Thank you for your most generous hospitality. I hope to repay it someday soon."

"Don't worry about it," the tall man said, slapping Picard on the shoulder. "We all share what we have. From each according to his ability, and to each according to his need. We shall see you in the morning."

"Good night, then," Picard said as the tall man moved off towards his mate.

Picard turned to Data as the two Starfleet officers headed towards the Visitors' Lodge.

"I wish I could tell her more," Picard said, the frustration evident in his voice. "She deserves to know that she is not disturbed, or seeing things that mean nothing."

"Have you not said yourself, sir, that the Prime Directive is not just a set of rules; it is a philosophy, and a very correct one. History has proven again and again that whenever mankind interferes with a less developed civilization, no matter how well intentioned that interference may be, the results are invariably disastrous."

"I know, Mr Data. The Prime Directive." He pushed open the door to the Visitors' Lodge and sat down heavily on a sleeping bench. "Starfleet is very strict: 'No identification of self or mission. No interference with the social development of said planet. No references to space, other worlds, or advanced civilizations...' But I don't think it's that simple here, Data."

Picard removed his leather clothing, and, clad in his Starfleet uniform, lay back on the furs. It was a cold night, and he was glad someone had been kind enough to light a fire in the hearth. He was also glad that the specially-treated uniform material was essentially self-cleaning, absorbing sweat and body odours from the wearer and enabling it to be worn for extensive periods of time in comfort. He rather doubted they had hot water showers here, and did not fancy the idea of bathing in cold water. These people lacked many things that he took for granted, and it was easy to fall into the trap of feeling guilty for the luxuries of his life. He needed to remind himself of the sacrifices and effort of generations of his ancestors that enabled him to enjoy clean clothes and warm baths.

"It's not that simple at all," Picard repeated, lying on his side, looking across at Data in the other sleeping area. While his second officer did not require sleep, and was perfectly able to stand motionless all night, Picard found it disturbing, and after the mission to find Spock on Romulus three years ago that they had undergone together, which involved several nights sharing a cabin in a cramped Klingon bird-of-prey, he had taken to asking Data to at least lie down, even if he didn't sleep. That way he felt less like he was being watched. "She's having visions of the future – not random hallucinations either, but, from what she described, remarkably accurate ones."

"Indeed sir," Data said. "I recognised several images. New York before the Eugenics War was unmistakable."

"And the last images?"

"Those are most interesting," Data said. "She lacks the vocabulary to describe them properly, but they sound very much like descriptions of pulsars, nebulae, and starships travelling at warp."

"Indeed," Picard said, his forehead lined with frustration. "But why? Why would a person from the ice age, thirty millennia before space travel, be having accurate visions of the 24th century, or even beyond?"

"Could this be a trick of Q's?" Data asked.

Picard shook his head. "I considered that. But it's not his style. There's no punchline. No sadistic humour. Q doesn't work like that – and it's too subtle for Q as well. Besides, after our last encounter, I don't think he's so interested in judging us any more."

"In that last encounter you saw visions of the future yourself," Data reminded him.

"No, not like this. Those were real, alternative timelines I played out. I'm still not sure if Q created them, or merely showed them to me."

"So you feel this is different?" Data asked.

"Definitely. It's not Q. Or rather, is very unlikely to be Q. But then what causes it? I need to find out what is causing these visions," Picard said. "Data, in the morning could you do a surreptitious sweep of the abri and see if you can detect any abnormalities?"

"Of course sir," the android replied. "Any particular abnormalities you wish me to focus on?"

"That's the trouble – I can't think of any," Picard said. "Perhaps when the Enterprise gets here we can run some more thorough tests."

"Indeed, captain," Data said.

"Yes, well. Nothing more we can do tonight, however. I'm going to get some sleep."

"Good night, sir," Data said. "I shall remain quiet, and not disturb you."

* * *

_Ayla felt herself floating in nothingness, falling and yet never landing. Strange shapes swam and coalesced in front of her eyes, and beams of light flashed across the starry skies of night. A great sun blazed in the void, tongues of flame licking at the darkness like a gigantic hearthfire. A face appeared in the stars, and she relaxed as the familiar image of the Mog-Ur slowly materialised before her, sad, looking at her with an indescribable sadness. But before she could reach him, he appeared to shake his head slowly, and, as she fell faster and faster, the outlines of Creb's face shimmered and coalesced into another face. A smooth bald skull, with a sloping forehead, a large nose and strong features. His eyes looked at her in welcome recognition, and Ayla gasped as his form took shape. She knew this face._

.

* * *

**NOTES:**

The type of horse that Ayla tamed is a Przewalski's horse, the tahki. The only true wild horse left, it has never been domesticated. At one stage there were only twelve horses left in the entire world, but they have now been reintroduced to the wild.

Picard's musings about fire do not yet, luckily, need to include the deaths of his brother and nephew, which happens the following year for him. Nevertheless, lacking any better idea, I have used the "Time is the fire in which we burn" quote for this chapter title.

Smilodon itself lived in North America, but sabre-toothed cats lived in Eurasia as well. They died out just 10,000 years ago. "Smilodon fatalis" is a name to run away from very fast….

"From each according to his ability, to each according to his need" is the famous Marxist slogan of course. Originally French, used by Louis Blanc back in 1851. It's also very much the maxim of the Federation in its post-scarcity economy, where each person does what they can, and is able to have what they need. How they are not all immensely fat couch potatoes doing nothing all day I have no idea.

And thanks to both the people that have bothered to follow this, and my few readers for reading - I know it's not an easy story to find, and I am sure many people would automatically consider crossing Star Trek and Earth's Children to be ridiculous, but this isn't some personal indulgence. There are strong thematic similarities between the two that I hope to get into even further, and an important lesson for Picard to learn at the end.


	12. Unknown Existences

**12\. Unknown Existences**

"Jean-Luc!" she whispered, her eyes snapping open. Her mind was in a ferment. Why had the stranger appeared in her vision? She sat up amid a sudden wave of dizziness that passed in a moment. The morning air was crisply cold, and she wanted to lose no time in getting the fire going before crawling back among the warm furs. Jonayla stirred and moaned in her sleep, and Ayla gently stroked the child's soft blonde hair. Lately the visions of the mysterious future, the future the clan could not know, were becoming more and more vivid. They did not disturb her as much as those of Durc and the man of the Others, at least not at first, but she was beginning to wonder if there was a connection. Who was Jean-Luc Picard – why had his image replaced that of Creb in her dream?

Sighing, she swung her legs out from under the furs and quickly slipped her winter leggings on. The temperature had plummeted in the night, as the sky was clear and allowed heat to escape easily. Shrugging on her jacket, she moved over to the hearth and took out the firestones. She had been so proud of her discovery back in her lonely valley, and of the improvement she was able to bring to the lives of the Mamutoi and the Zelandonii and the other tribes to whom she had taught the secret. But as she held them in her hands, she was struck by the feeling that there must be other ways to light fires, ways she could not dream of, ways that were as big a step from stones as stones had been from rubbing sticks together. For as long as the Clan could remember, which was a very long time indeed, they had made fire from sticks. Before that, they had been dependent on forest fires or random strokes of lightning, that mysterious blinding light from the heavens that defied all attempts to understand it. Yet she had found that fire could be coaxed from two simple rocks, and had thereby made obsolete tens of thousands of human technology with a single strike of stone on stone. She had never really considered that there could be any better way – what need was there for one? – but now, as she squatted in front of the cold ashes of the previous night's fire, she was suddenly sure that there was something beyond firestones, beyond anything she knew she could conceive of, that would make her firestones as obsolete as the two sticks of her ancestors.

Her head swimming, she struck the stones together, and soon had a good blaze going. She sat back and watched it, wondering what about it had drawn Picard the night before. His expression had been one almost of loss, and that puzzled her greatly. Perhaps he had had family members die in a fire, she thought – it happened sometimes, especially on hunts when large sections of dry grass were set aflame to stampede a herd towards the waiting hunters. Sometimes the wind would shift unexpectedly, or the fire would blaze out of control, and kill members of the tribe. She had even heard of times when a carelessly-extinguished hearthfire would consume a hut or shelter, although that was rare. Perhaps Picard had lost people like that, once. But somehow she didn't think it was that simple. There was loss, but no pain, in his eyes.

The fire blazed up, and she put Picard from her mind as she set the tripod over the flames and emptied some water from the skin into it. While it was heating she went out to the river, first detouring to pass her morning water. The river was bitterly cold, and she contented herself with splashing her face and arms: a proper wash could wait until the sun had warmed the water some more. Ever since she and Jondalar had nearly died crossing The Sister, Ayla had lost much of her once superhuman tolerance for cold water, and the hot water bath that the Losadunai had shown her only reinforced that growing distaste. These days she preferred to use water she had heated on a fire for most simple washing, at least in winter. It would be nice if there were pits of hot water around the Zelandonii caves, but no one she asked had ever heard of such.

Her ablutions finished, Ayla refilled the waterskin and headed back to the abri, first to the Visitors' Hut to see if her guests needed anything. Scratching the skin, she heard a crisp "Enter."

"Good morning, Jean-Luc, Data," she said as she passed through the doorway. She looked around in surprise: both men were up and dressed, but the fire was still dead. "I brought you some fresh water," she added, holding out the skin.

"Thank you Ayla," Picard said, taking the soft and pliable container, made from the stomach of a deer.

"Have you not been able to find the firestones?" Ayla asked, gesturing towards the hearth.

"Uh – we hadn't looked," Picard admitted. Starfleet uniforms were able to adapt to a wide variety of thermal conditions, and he suspected he was in fact warmer than Ayla in her thick leather. The night had been cold, but he had used a phaser to heat some rocks, which thus made very serviceable warmers for the furs.

"Here they are," Ayla said, taking them out and getting the fire materials set up. She struck the stones together, and just as she did so, a sudden thought struck her.

"Do you use firestones, Jean-Luc?" she asked, looking at him directly. She felt her heart leap as he tried to look away, and showed obvious signs of reluctance to answer her. Few others among the Zelanadonii would have seen his reactions, however: to them he would have looked calm and composed.

"You don't, do you?" Ayla said, pressuring him. "Tell me, Jean-Luc – what do your people use that is better than firestones?"

"I'm truly sorry, Ayla, but I really cannot tell you," Picard eventually said after a long silence. "We are not permitted to discuss our society with others. That is all I can tell you."

Ayla felt her face flush with anger. It was obvious that Picard saw it, as he looked helplessly from her to his companion, shame written on his features.

"Ayla, please believe me, it was not my choice to conceal anything. I am bound by my word, by my duty, and the oaths of my office. Please, I do not wish to cause you distress, or appear ungrateful for your hospitality. I truly am thankful. But my people have learnt over the centuries that we must be guarded with our knowledge. We have seen in the past how other peoples have been swept away, cultures destroyed, when confronted with alien ideas and power."

She looked at him, wondering. Other peoples? He could only mean the Clan. Had his people once, long ago, encountered the Clan, and had destroyed them? She knew it would not be easy, even with the better weapons and tools of the Others: the Clan were hardy and strong fighters – not overly agile, but far stronger than even Jondalar. Perhaps it could be done, but it would not be easy, and it would leave many scars. Perhaps that was why he was reluctant. But she needed to talk with Zelandoni about it more – perhaps the older woman would be better at teasing out the newcomers' secrets.

Farewelling him somewhat stiffly, she left the hut to return to her own family. As she did so, she realised that she had forgotten to ask him about her latest vision, the one where Picard had taken the place of Creb.

* * *

"Well, Mr Data, that could have gone better," Picard said as he looked at the barely flickering embers. Ayla had forgotten to build the fire up, and so he attended to that himself, adding twigs and dry moss until he had a fair-sized blaze going.

"Indeed, sir," Data replied. "I sensed a certain amount of friction when you informed Ayla that we were not at liberty to discuss our people with her."

"And can you blame her?" Picard asked rhetorically. "I know in her shoes I would be desperate to learn. Especially as she thinks we can help her with those visions she's been seeing."

"Do you have any theories regarding them, sir?" Data asked.

"Not really," Picard said. "Not even a working hypothesis at this stage. But one thing we do know: those visions are too accurate to be coincidences. Something is happening here, Mr Data, and I intend to find out what. It may be connected with the chronodrive distortion that pulled us back here. Can you detect any remnants of chrono-particles?"

Data pulled out his tricorder while Picard opened a concealed packet of military rations. While not the best food there was, they were nutrient-dense and calorie-rich. Chewing, he looked over at his second officer while Data swung the tricorder around, taking readings.

"Don't leave the hut yet," Picard cautioned as Data moved towards the entrance.

"No sir," Data said. "It is just that there seems to be a slightly higher concentration here. But not exceeding more than a few parts per billion – barely above background levels.

"We need more data, Data," Picard said, standing up. "Can you conceal a tricorder somehow and still get information?"

"I can adjust it to send its signals directly to my positronic net," the android said calmly. "And I can place the tricorder itself in a pocket of the Zelandonii outer garment."

"Make it so," Picard said. "In the meantime, I think I need to have a talk with the spiritual leader of these people. See if she can tell me more about this place – if any other people have reported visions, or if other strange incidents have happened."

"Very well sir," Data said, and opened up a section of his left arm as Picard stood up.

"Don't let anyone see you like, Data," the captain cautioned as he left.

* * *

The morning sun was low enough to strike almost the very back of the abri, and it cast long shadows as Picard walked up the slight slope to where the shamaness, the Zelandoni, resided. But he didn't need to go that far. He saw her, sitting on a large seat that looked as if it was carved out of a solid block of limestone, towards the back of the large open area under the enormous overhanging cliff that protected the settlement, but within sight of almost the entire communal living space. The woman appeared to be meditating, and Picard was loathe to interrupt her. But as he drew near to her, the donier opened her piercing blue eyes and fixed him with a direct gaze. Picard could sense a strong commander when he saw one: though hugely obese, she carried her great size with grace, and a demeanour that asserted her prestige and authority. She had a presence, an aura of power about her that commanded respect.

"You are the Picard," she said by way of greeting. "The one who is First of the Second. Tell me, Picard, just what does that mean?"

"My people are explorers," Picard said. "But not all of us are out there exploring. Some remain at home and direct our explorations. They are the highest-ranked, the wisest, the teachers. Those that explore, like myself, are the rank below them."

"I see. It is a difference rather than a matter of pure status. It reflects your occupation rather than your abilities. Just as the ranks of Zelandoni and Headman reflect ours."

"More or less," Picard admitted.

"So tell me, honoured stranger," Zelandoni said, leaning forward. "Are your journeys of the flesh, or of the spirit?"

"Pardon?"

"What do you seek to know, Picard? The material rocks and mountains of this world, or the great inner depths of the soul?"

"We are of course interested in both," Picard said. "However our primary mission is the explore the cosmos, meet new people, and learn more about the world around us."

"Spoken like a trader or a hunter," Zelandoni said, a slight degree of contempt in her voice. "You should not be distracted by the physical. Do not be deceived by the flesh, for it can betray you. It is what is in here–" she tapped her head "–that is the true goal of knowledge. That is the exploration that awaits you: not mapping rivers or studying stones, but charting the unknown possibilities of existence."

Picard glanced at her face, wondering why she had used that phrase, so similar to the one Q had told him at the end of their last encounter, when he had pronounced the final verdict on his judgement of humanity. Q had condemned humanity to extinction through never having even existed, in order to stimulate Picard's mind, and by extension that of all humanity, into going beyond the purely physical exploration of the cosmos. Picard knew that inner journeys could be just as deep and rewarding, but like all humans from his time, he was still deeply sceptical of the mystical, the spiritual. Earth's history bore too many scars from the wars and fighting that fed off religious hatred and fanaticism, and so of all the known galaxy, humans were now among the least religious, least spiritual. Q's judgement had been seen by some in the Federation as a sign that perhaps their emphasis on the physical, the material, had led them to neglect much of the nature of the universe, and Picard was chagrined to realise that despite recognising it on an intellectual level, he had not yet fully assimilated Q's lesson.

"What can you tell me about Ayla?" he asked. "What about her explorations?"

"Physical – I can tell you little. But you have also heard them. I sense you wish to talk about her inner journeys – her visions."

"Indeed."

"Sit," Zelandoni said, indicating a smooth stone, somewhat lower than her own throne. Picard did so, feeling rather like a first-year cadet in one of Professor Galen's classes studying the Iconian civilisation and trying to get his head around their few remaining writings. "What do you make of them?" she asked, looking carefully at the older man.

"I – Data and I, that is – have a few ideas, but we need more facts."

"Facts? What are facts? Facts are stupid things," Zelandoni said dismissively. "You have all the facts you need: you have talked to her. What does your training, your instincts, your intuition, say about them?"

"That they are real," Picard admitted. "But I cannot see how that could be."

"Why not?" Zelandoni asked in genuine surprise. She herself had never doubted that Ayla's visions were real. It was their interpretation, not their reality, that concerned her. She looked over at the First of the Second, the Picard, and wondered again what sort of people his were, what sort of training he been given. She knew he had wisdom and experienced, but it seemed to be of a different order to her own training, or the wisdom she had seen in her own mentor.

"They go against everything we know about how time works," Picard said. "How can she know of the future?"

"What is time, Picard?" Zelandoni asked.

Now it was Picard's turn to be surprised. He would never have guessed that thirty thousand years before the first clocks, humans already had such a sophisticated grasp of temporal concepts. He expected them to know about the present and the past of course, and to be aware of the future – even the Neanderthals had shown clear signs of that – but not to be aware of the concept of time itself.

"Is not time like the Great Mother River?" Zelandoni was saying. "I have never seen it myself, but know many who have. It flows on, from the past to the future, and just as we cannot see the end of the river until we reach it, so we cannot see the end of the time. But perhaps we can see some of it. And perhaps some of us are better than others at seeing it."

"Time as a river – many of our thinkers have had the same idea," Picard said, very impressed. But if he was impressed, Zelandoni was rather less so. She had hoped to shock him with her radical view on the way the present became the past, and the future became the present, and was not pleased to see he was already very familiar with the concept. She sensed she was losing some of her hold over this discussion. She needed to steer it back from the metaphysical of Ayla's visions to something she had more control over. The visions could wait.

"Precisely," she said. "We who are privileged to be the guardians and intermediaries between this world and the next are often granted such insights. And here, among the Zelandonii, where we have the Womb of the Earth Mother, Donii's Deep, in our care such ideas are more accepted than they might be elsewhere. Yes, it is a great responsibility to be the ones to look after the Fountain Rocks, where the boundaries between this world and that of the spirits and the great Earth Mother are thinnest." She sighed, and looked at Picard. "It is our gift to share, openly and without reservation, to all those that are worthy of it. We each share what we have, for that is the way of The Mother."

Picard looked at the fat woman, seemingly so welcoming and open, but knowing she was playing a serious game. She wanted something from him, and he was sure he would not be able to give it.

"I would willingly share all that I am permitted to," he said, by way of starting the game.

"And we would ask no more," Zelandoni said. She was determined to learn as much as she could about the healing magic of the newcomers, and anything else about them. The opening moves were now made. It was a contest of wills, to see who could worm more information out without revealing or conceding too much.

* * *

"Hello," came a new voice.

Data looked around, and saw a young woman approach him. She was tall and slim, with light hair and dark eyes. Data searched in his memory chips for her name, and in 0.032 seconds he had the answer.

"Good morning, Marona," he said smoothly as the young woman came up to him with a strange expression on her face.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I am talking to you," Data replied truthfully.

"No, silly, before that," Marona said. "I saw you walking slowly around the abri, stopping every so often like you were looking for something. But you never looked down."

"That is true. I was looking for something. But I do not think you would understand what."

Marona's eyes flashed. She resented having her intelligence questioned – or indeed, anything about her questioned. She was intrigued by this man however: he and his companion were clearly powerful, perhaps even more so than Zelandoni. She had heard rumours of strange magic they commanded, and miraculous healing powers. If she could somehow find out more about them, then perhaps her status among the Zelandonii would rise. Ever since Jondalar had returned with that tall foreign woman with the funny accent she had felt herself being cast into the shade, tossed out like day-old tea. Among the Zelandonii, status was everything. She had once been Promised to the son of the leader, and now she was nobody. Well, not for long – not if she could gain power that even Zelandonii did not possess. She was determined to learn everything she could from these strangers. Perhaps they would be more willing to share than the secretive and haughty Zelandoni. And she wanted to know why Ayla, the usurper, had been acting even stranger than usual lately.

"I want to understand," she replied. "I want to know all about you, in fact."

"I do not think I can tell you everything you might wish to know," Data said. "You may be disappointed."

"Well, what can you tell me?" Marona said sweetly, smiling up at the newcomer.

"Perhaps not as much as you wish," Data said.

"There must be something," Marona said, tugging at her shirt to reveal more of her ample cleavage. She had learned long ago that this had far more effect on men than simply removing it: it was the promise that led them, not the goal. However this man did not even seem to notice. She hoped he was not one who preferred to share Pleasures with other men – that was considered an affront to the true idea of Pleasures and the importance of the female. Especially when it was her being shunned.

"Perhaps we could have a talk together," she suggested. "I have some of Marthona's wine left, you know."

"I am sorry, I am on duty," Data said. "I am quite busy right now. Perhaps later."

"What are you doing? You're just standing around!" Marona exclaimed.

"Captain Picard has asked me to conduct some investigations for him," Data explained. "That is what I am doing."

"Why do you call him a 'captain'? Is that not the title for someone who leads a hunting party? But you are not hunting."

"It is a title with different meanings in our society," Data explained. "Now, if you will excuse me, I need to complete my survey."

"What are you looking for?" Marona asked, following alongside Data as the android moved off. She couldn't imagine what on earth he could be investigating, just walking along at random.

"I am trying to detect certain patterns of energy that may explain Ayla's visions, and that might explain why she feels the Mother goddess is abandoning her." Data said.

"Energy? Some sort of force, something to do with the Mother?" Marona asked, suddenly nervous. She looked around her at the familiar and comforting abri, the scattered huts and hearths that was her entire world, and shuddered. Had something happened to cause the Mother to withdraw her bounty? How could they survive without it? How could they make amends?

"I am not able to explain it," Data said. "Not at this stage. However there seem to be definite patterns of energy developing, and…they seem to be centred here," he finished, stopping in front of a hut.

"Ayla's hearth…" Marona whispered. She shivered, and pulled her tunic tighter. But then something struck her, and she smiled slightly. This could be the perfect excuse to get rid of the blonde she-dog: if Ayla was responsible for the Mother's anger, then she would have the leave the cave – for the safety of everyone. And then things would be like they were before. She had to know more. Both for the cave's sake, and hers...

.

* * *

**NOTES**

"The Sister" refers to a tributary of the Great Mother River (the Danube) in the EC books, which Ayla and Jondalar cross. In the book it was frigid, and they barely make it—in fact Auel stretches plausibility here quite a lot, as it has been criticised as being highly unlikely. So I have referenced that with Ayla's decreased ability to withstand the cold. Mind you, Plains of Passage (the book in question) is Ayla at her most Mary-Sueish, and some of her feats are just plain implausible in the extreme.

"We need more data, Data" is a deliberate dig at the inhuman nature of the name of an android that wishes to be seen as human. Try calling yourself Brent, mate. That might be a start….  
Q will not appear in this story, by the way.

"Donier" is the generic title given to the shamanesses.

Marona, for those who are less familiar with Earth's Children, was once semi-betrothed ("Promised") to Jondalar, and resents Ayla's usurping of her position there.

It can get confusing with "Zelandonii" (the tribe) and "Zelandoni" (the name given to the donier)...

And thanks to **JustsomeGuy **for being the first person to review this. I know it's hard to find, and the concept might raise eyebrows, so will never get many readers, but yes, I also think it works well as a crossover. Picard will learn a significant lesson from his time here. As will Ayla.


	13. Idea and Connections

**13\. Ideas and Connections**

While Zelandoni was a wise and skilled debater, she was however no match for Picard, whose natural abilities in diplomatic negotiation had been honed by years of training and practice. As he managed to skilfully rebuff every overture, the spiritual leader of the Ninth Cave felt herself torn between exasperation and admiration. Finally, realising that nothing she could say would induce Picard to discuss the magic healing sticks, and being unable to retract the offer of participation in the cave ceremony without loss of face, she decided to change tactics.

"And what of Ayla?" she asked suddenly.

"Ayla?"

"I know she has been looking to you as well for information on her visions," Zelandoni said. "I have given her what advice I have, but perhaps you can offer different insights."

"I am not sure that such matters should be discussed without Ayla present."

"I assume you have discussed them with her," Zelandoni said, raising an eyebrow.

"To an extent," Picard admitted.

"Then why does she need to be here? Surely you and I are better qualified to understand them?"

"Perhaps," Picard said grudgingly. "But I dislike theorising without data."

"Do you not have enough facts? Surely there are those among your own people who have visions?"

"True, but we usually have – different facilities to help interpret them."

"Special ceremonies, you mean?"

It wasn't what Picard meant, but the Starfleet officer nodded anyway. He had an idea.

"Something like that. I feel that until the cave ceremony, we will not be able to learn more. Perhaps there, in Doni's Deep, we may find some answers," Picard said slowly.

"An excellent idea," Zelandoni agreed. And it was – not only did it give them both more time to think, but it gave him a rock-solid excuse to attend. And Zelandoni knew that once before Ayla had seemed to experience a vision deep inside the Fountain Rocks – the place was clearly connected in some way to her visions. And, not least, at the cave ceremony she would be firmly in charge: it was her domain, far more than the cave, and Picard was the outsider, no matter his expertise.

The matter settled to her satisfaction, the large woman dismissed her guest, and resumed her meditating posture, turning the bone tablet around her neck to the smooth side as a signal that she was not to be disturbed.

Picard left, wondering if he had really made any progress other than getting a firm commitment to the ceremony. What it would have to do with Ayla, he had no real idea. He had at least managed to find a chance to ask about other people having visions, and had been told that Ayla was the only one. So whatever it was that was causing them, it was specific to her. Wishing he could find some decent tea somewhere, he headed off to look for Data.

* * *

"Do you think there is a connection, Data?" Marona asked.

"Between?"

"Between Ayla's visions of the Mother leaving us, and Ayla," Marona said.

"I cannot yet answer that, I am afraid. Preliminary investigations would seem to establish a relationship between Ayla and the visions that goes beyond pure psychological phenomena, but as to its connection with the contents of those visions, I cannot yet hazard a guess."

Marona felt a brief flush of frustration at the man's annoyingly verbose phrasing, which she took to mean he was trying to avoid telling her anything. She had to know, and not only for her own sake. This could affect the entire cave.

"So what do you think her visions mean?" she asked as Data headed back to the Visitors' Hearth. She followed him into the outer living area, and sat down on one of the sleeping platforms. She was determined to get an answer, ideally something she could take to Marthona – Marthona, rather than directly to Joharran, she decided. She would take it to her in confidence, woman to woman, and suggest it as something regrettable, something she was unwilling to bring directly to the cave leader. And then she would let Marthona persuade Joharran, with all the authority of a mother and former leader.

"We have established that it is likely her visions are accurate in some respects," Data admitted, still standing. "While this does not mean that they are accurate in all respects, it is an indication that they may not be inaccurate."

Marona's heart leapt. "Could it be true? Could they be real? About the Mother leaving us? What will happen to us then?"

"I must remind you that the idea of the Mother leaving you is merely Ayla's own interpretation of her visions," Data said carefully. "She has seen several things that lead her to believe this is the best interpretation, but it does not follow that that is the sole or correct interpretation. There is no need to fear."

"But what if it is correct?" Marona asked. "Should she not leave the cave, for the safety of us all?"

"I cannot conceive of any circumstances in which her interpretation could be correct," Data said.

Marona's eyes widened. That was a bold statement, she thought. Was he so confident of the Mother then? Or was he merely trying to protect Ayla? It seemed like everyone wanted to try and protect the blonde stranger. But if they were going to do so at the expense of the cave, of the Zelandonii, then something would have to be done. Someone would have to try and stop them. How could she get Data to admit the truth to her?

"If there were a danger, what would you do?" she asked.

"I cannot answer that without knowing what the danger would be," Data said. The wider issue, that even if there was some form of danger, he was duty-bound not to interfere, he let pass for the moment.

Marona arched an elegant eyebrow. "You don't know what would happen?" she asked incredulously. "Aren't you bound to serve the Mother? How can you not be aware of what would happen?"

Data paused, uncertain of how to act. He knew that it was his captain's wishes that he pass himself off as a native, and it was also in keeping with the Prime Directive. While he was technically capable of lying, and had done so in the past under direct orders, he was unable to invent lies himself. Particularly when they needed to sound plausible.

"There are many possible scenarios," he eventually said, after a pause to calculate all the variables that lasted three whole seconds. "Which concerns you the most?"

"Are you serious? If the Mother withdraws her bounty, no more children will ever be born. We are Earth's children – she makes us, implants our spirits in our mothers. Just as she is the Mother of our spirits, they are of our flesh – in fact often children resemble their mothers, as a way to remind us. But without the Mother to guide our spirits, there will be no more children. And we will all die – there will be no new hunters, no new healers, no new leaders. We will grow old and die of starvation! In fact we won't even get a chance to grow old, as all other living things will no longer come from the earth. It will be barren, lifeless; nothing but rock and soil!"

Marona's words tumbled out in a frenzy, as fear clamped its icy grip around her heart. For a hunter-gatherer people who lived in the ice age, the failure of the bounty of food that lived all around them was the worst disaster imaginable. It was why worship of the Earth Mother, that brought forth all life, was so vital. It was why whenever an animal was killed and its meat eaten thanks were made to its spirit, so that in the other world it would be content and tell the Mother that Earth's children were still respecting her bounty. Everything from the biggest mammoth to the smallest flint awl was a product of the Earth, and if the Earth Mother were ever angered, there would be shortages – it had happened before, at times – and Marona dreaded to think what would happen if she were to ever fully abandon them.

Data stood there, his face a mask as he watched her. It was obvious the young woman was highly upset, and he felt she would appreciate comfort. In this case, he remembered, it was common to sit beside the distressed person and put one's arm around them. This he proceeded to do.

Marona was startled. It had been a long time since anyone had shown her such tenderness, in no small part due to her own increasing bitterness since Jondalar had returned and her dreams had been shattered. Normally she would have resisted such closeness, preferring to remain aloof from tenderness – to her, it was a matter of pride to be able to resist the weaker emotions – but now she was feeling unusually small and helpless in the face of potential disaster, and Data's calmness was rather soothing. She lent her head against his hard chest, and felt her heart rate gradually return to normal. As it did, she found herself wondering why Data was so calm about the possibility of the Mother leaving them. He obviously knew more about than she did. The question was, was he being calm in order to forestall her panic and questions, or was he being calm as there genuinely was nothing to worry about? Perhaps there was in fact nothing to worry about – after all, they only had Ayla's word that her visions were about the Mother leaving them. _Perhaps_, Marona thought_, the tall blonde usurper is just making them up to make herself seem more important. That could be it: she goes around telling people of these important visions that she has and then everyone from Zelandoni on down pays even more attention to her. As if she wasn't getting enough already_, she thought, fuming. _How could I ever have competed with this strong, intelligent, exotic beauty from distant lands with a mysterious past? He was bound to love her, from the moment he saw her_. Marona had no illusions about Jondalar, and how he was seen by women. It had been a matter of no small pride that she of all the females had been the one his eye had settled on, and then this…this _outsider_ had taken him, shamed her in front of her community, her people. For as long as she lived, people would remember her as the one who was rejected. She felt a tear roll down her cheek as her self-pitying depression deepened, and she held the man beside her more tightly.

Data sat there patiently, uncertain as to how to react. He saw the young woman was highly upset, but since there was in fact no Earth Mother Goddess, he wasn't sure why she would be worried. There was no danger at all. He felt her nestle in closer, in a move that he deduced as being based on a desire for paternal comfort, and so he began stroking her light-brown hair, as that was what often calmed children. It seemed to work on Marona, as she eventually became less tense, and so Data felt free to mentally review the results of his survey. However he had barely begun to calculate the required parameters when Marona stirred, and shifted his arm off from his shoulder.

"Data, you are One Who Serves, are you not?" she asked, looking at him directly.

"I am not of the same rank as the Captain," he replied.

"But still, you must know something that I do not. You do not seem worried about the idea that the Mother might leave us."

"I am not," Data admitted truthfully.

"Do you think it is likely?" She had to know. She looked into his strange eyes, seeking the truth of his statements. "Do Ayla's visions tell of danger to us?"

"No. I do not think so," he stated calmly.

"Is it possible she is making them up?" she urged, one immediate fear somewhat assuaged. While she was not as good as Ayla, she was sure that this man was not lying. His face was calm, his eyes steady.

"It is unlikely," Data said. "The Captain and I have found evidence that her statements could not be invented."

"Which parts?" Marona pressed him. "You just said that you do not think there is a danger. Do you think that the Mother will in fact leave us?"

"I do not."

"And yet you believe Ayla?"

"I believe that she has seen what she has seen. However I believe her conclusions are faulty, as I said earlier."

"So do you think that she should be going around spreading panic?" Marona asked.

"I was not aware she was spreading panic," Data said.

"Such rumours are bound to cause panic," Marona stated emphatically. Especially if I help spread them, she added to herself. "She should be banned from discussing them."

"It is not in my power to ban her from talking," Data said.

"I know," Marona said. "But other people have that power." She stood up, a smile spreading across her face. "Thank you for your advice, Data. Remind me to make it up to you sometime," she added, looking at him and licking her lips with a suggestive smile before heading out of the tent.

A few minutes later the drape was moved aside again as Picard entered. "Any luck, Mr Data?"

"Some, Captain," he replied. "I found slightly elevated chrono-particle levels throughout the cave."

"To be expected," Picard said, sitting down and taking a drink of cold tea left over from the night before. "We were probably tracking them all over, wherever we went. After all, we were hit by a massive amount, and there was some leakage into the shuttle."

"That is correct," Data said. "However I also found indications that Ayla has been exposed as well."

"Could these be affecting her visions?" Picard asked.

"Highly unlikely, Captain. There is no indication of any previous chrono-particle contamination, and since her visions date from before our arrival, then there is no connection between them. The possibility remains, however, that they could be affecting them, if there have been any changes."

"She hasn't mentioned any changes to me," Picard said. "However I think that she is getting rather frustrated with our refusal to tell her anything about what we really know of them."

"That is quite likely, sir. However if it turns out that actions of ours have affected them, then we may not have any choice."

"Perhaps we may have to bend the Prime Directive slightly, Mr Data," Picard mused.

The Prime Directive was never the absolute it seemed in theory. Picard knew that if it was deemed vital, it was the prerogative of a starship captain or leader to bend it when truly unavoidable. Subject, as always, to a strict review by Starfleet – he knew this well, having violated it more than a few times in the past seven or so years. He did not enjoy these grillings, and several times had come perilously close to an official censure. On the back of his chair in his ready room was always draped the Mintakan tapestry he had been given five years before: the Mintakans had been a bronze-age culture under observation by Federation scientists when their hologrammatic duck-blind had failed, exposing them. The Mintakans had taken the superior technology of the humans as a sign they were gods, and it was only through demonstrating his own vulnerability that Picard had managed to avert a serious rift in their natural progress. Even so, the damage was extreme, and it had taken years of subtle pressure from infiltrating Federation agents to set them back on their previous path. With the Cro-Magnons of Earth, the situation was even more delicate: too much change would not only change their future development, but in doing so, completely change the history of human civilisation. Starfleet might never be founded, creating a massive time paradox.

"I think I should talk to Ayla again," Picard added, wondering how he would go about explaining his change of heart.

"You are probably making the correct decision, sir," Data said.

"Your faith in me is appreciated, Mr Data."

"It is not faith as such sir, for faith is independent of facts. I estimate only a seventeen percent chance that you would ever be so indecisive in a crisis as to call Starfleet for instructions, based on past actions and consequences."

"Even better," Picard said, smiling. "I shall see you later, Mr Data."

"There is one more thing, sir," the android said, his face as impassive as ever.

"Yes?"

"In addition to scanning for chronometric particle resonance scales, I also scanned for other traces that might assist our analysis. There was nothing definite. However I have found something that you should be aware of. There are also traces of lithium radiation here, and the only possible source of that in this time period is our shuttle warp core, specifically the dilithium crystals. When bombarded with high-energy anti-protons they are able to convert the anti-matter and matter reaction into usable energy, but the conversion is never a hundred percent – there is always some residue, which is why dilithium crystals require periodic replacement. When the containment field is weakened, some of this energy is released as lithium radiation."

"Lithium radiation? Data, were we contaminated when the warp core malfunctioned?"

"Only mildly sir," the android replied. "Well within tolerance levels. However I have found stronger traces, not left by us."

"Not by us? Surely there are no other visitors from the future?"

"I think it unlikely," Data said. "I was able to trace the lithium radiation patterns, and work out where they were most concentrated. From that I am able to speculate with eighty-seven percent certainty who has been contaminated."

"Who?"

"The most likely person is Ayla," Data said.

"Ayla! How badly is she contaminated?"

"Not seriously," Data reassured him. "Short of a full breach, the warp containment fields have enough failsafe mechanisms to prevent lethal exposure. However I will need to take more direct readings at some stage. She may feel ill or dizzy, but she should not be in any serious danger."

"Good," Picard breathed. "Keep an eye on her, though."

"Aye sir."

* * *

_First Officer's Log, 32,019 years before the standard Stardate calendar. After two days at maximum warp we have reached Earth's solar system. However long-range scans have detected the remains of a warp core explosion, and I fear the worst. Once we reach Earth orbit we shall scan the planet's surface for the captain and lieutenant-commander Data in hope that they managed to beam down before the explosion. The crew is edgy and nervous, so Counsellor Troi informs me, but I do not need Betazed empathy to tell me that. We're 30,000 years in the past, with no one to rescue us if something goes wrong._

"Captain, we have reached Earth."

"Enter standard orbit, Mr Singh."

The ops officer entered a few commands, and the Enterprise smoothly decelerated out of warp and into a geostationary orbit above the equator.

"Can you pick up their signals, Mr Worf?" Riker asked.

"Scanning, commander," the Klingon said. His hands flew over the panel, then a few seconds later he addressed Riker again. "Two signals, strong, from France, southern, coordinates 45 degrees two minutes 51.27 seconds north by one degree eight minutes 7.52 seconds east. Elevation 87 metres above sea-level."

"Sea level in the 24th century, that is," Geordi added. "Commander, I've located the shuttle as well. Ten-point-seven kilometres north-north-west of their position."

"Excellent. So they made it down in one piece," Riker said.

"Looks like it, commander," Geordi said. "I'd say they had a warp core breach and had to eject the core, but managed to land on impulse drive. Let me try and bring up the shuttle on the main viewer."

"Leave that till later, Geordi," Riker said. "For the moment I want to concentrate on the captain and Mr Data. Can you get a lock on them with the transporter?"

"Scanning," Worf said. "I have their signals."

"Commander, they're in the middle of a group of people. We shouldn't beam them up until they're alone," La Forge added.

"Open a channel, Mr Worf," Riker said.

"Channel open, sir."

"Captain Picard, this is Will Riker of the USS Enterprise. Can you receive me? Over."

There was a long pause, and Riker was just about to repeat his hail when the speakers hissed into life.

"Reading you loud and clear, Number One. What took you so long?"

"Had to make a quick detour to Sirius, sir," Riker said, grinning widely. "How have you been enjoying your shore leave?"

"Fantastic, Commander," Picard said. "I've never experienced anything quite like it."

"Are you and Commander Data both safe?" Troi interjected.

"Perfectly fine, Counsellor, thank you," Picard replied. "Have you located the shuttle?"

"Yes, Captain. It looks like you had a warp core breach," Riker said.

"Something like that," Picard said. "Mr Data can explain later. Right now I need you to tow the shuttle out of there and then decontaminate the crash site."

"When can we get you out of there, sir?"

"Uh, no rush on that, Number One," Picard said. "As a matter of fact I was hoping to stay a few more days. There's a ceremony I particularly want to see. And one other thing: once you have the shuttle, I'd like you to join me down here, if you don't mind. Oh, and Will – bring some warm clothing, preferably made of animal skins. Picard out."

The connection closed, and Riker looked at Troi with an amused expression of wonder on his face. "Sounds like he's happy to be stuck in the Ice Age," he said.

"Will, you know the captain's always been fascinated by the past, by archaeology. And now he has the chance to experience it first-hand. Of course he's excited, and wants to learn more. And he doesn't seem in any immediate danger."

"No, perhaps not," Riker said. "But all the same, I'd prefer not to risk contamination of the timeline any more than we can help. God knows what could happen if we break the Prime Directive with our own ancestors." He turned to Worf. "How soon can you get that shuttle back?"

"We could beam it directly to Shuttle Bay Two, Commander," Worf said.

"Make it so. Then join me and Ensign Barclay in Transporter Room Three for an away mission. We'll need to decontaminate the site, and then perhaps see what the captain is up to."

"Aye, sir."

"And Worf," Riker added, "I want you there in case there's trouble."

"What kind of trouble, Commander?" the Klingon asked, obviously relishing the prospect of some.

"That's the problem – I don't know. And you're a good man to have on your side when it comes to the unpredicted."

"Won't he be seen as non-human?" Troi interrupted anxiously.

"Neanderthals were still around at this time, weren't they?" La Forge asked. "Maybe they'll see him as a tall Neanderthal."

"I don't think they are as yet aware enough of other species and their relationships to humans to even consider he isn't one," Riker said. "After all, aside from the forehead and face, externally he is human in appearance. Not sure how we'll explain his forehead ridges, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"I shall inform them that these are scars received in battle," the Klingon said proudly.

"Good enough," Riker said. "Let's get that shuttle, and then get going!"

.

* * *

**NOTES:** I resisted the temptation to leave a cliffhanger when we find out Ayla has been slightly contaminated by radiation, partially as it's cheesy, partially as I don't like cliffhangers anyway. I prefer the JK Rowling style of finishing a chapter in the middle of a plot point.

Not too many facts here. The coordinates Worf gives are the actual coordinates of the Ninth Cave according to Google Earth. Just in case you were wondering if I pulled them out my - out of thin air...

**PS**: Woot! Two reviews in this tiny corner of fandom! Thanks to **drinker** as well.


	14. To Drive the Mother Away

**14\. To Drive the Mother Away**

Ayla looked up as Marthona approached her. She could tell at once that the older woman had something of importance to discuss, and gently disentangled Jonayla from her hair as she stood up, setting her child carefully on the ground.

"Ayla," Jondalar's mother greeted her quickly as she drew near. "Can we talk?"

"Of course, Marthona," Ayla replied.

"Somewhere quiet," Marthona added, glancing around.

Ayla frowned slightly, but picked up her baby and followed Marthona out of the abri. They walked for a few minutes, and then Marthona sat on a wide flat rock by the river. Wordlessly, Ayla sat facing her, seating Jonayla on her lap.

There was a short silence, in which the only sound was the river, rushing over the rocks as it hurried to its distant goal. Ayla found herself wondering suddenly where that was, but was prevented from speculating further by Marthona's voice.

"Ayla, I don't really know how to talk about this," she said hesitantly. "It's about your visions."

"The ones of the Mother leaving us?" Ayla asked.

"Exactly," Marthona said. "Tell me, has this new man, this Picard, been able to tell you much about them?"

"No," Ayla said, the frustration in her voice evident. "I know he knows more than he is telling me, so why won't he tell me what he means?"

"Did he mention anything about how real they might be?"

"He did say that what I saw was real," Ayla said. "But–"

"He did, did he?" Marthona pursed her lips, and looked off into the distance, past Ayla's shoulder, for a moment before returning her gaze to the young blonde woman before her. "He thinks they are real, does he?"

"He says they are," Ayla replied. "But he also says that what I see might not be what I think I see."

"So your visions might not actually be of the Mother leaving?"

"Yes…. But that's impossible!" Ayla said with sudden conviction. "I know that what I saw was just the message, the painting on the wall of the cave. What it means I felt, I _know_. It was as real as an aurochs or a mammoth. Creb's face, the stars, the shapes – that was all just the painting, the medium to convey the message."

"And you are sure you could not be wrong about this?"

For a moment, Ayla held her gaze, but then dropped her face. "I know in my heart that it is true, that it is a message. But I cannot touch it, I cannot see it unless in a vision. And I know visions can sometimes deceive, be tricky. Mamut taught me that. As did Creb. So I say that I know it as well as I can know a thought, but not as well as I know that you are sitting here in front of me."

"Your abilities in this area are high," Marthona added. "Zelandoni herself holds you in awe – though she would never admit it. From what Jondalar has told me, your visions have a way of coming true, especially when you see the old – what was the word? Mog-Ur? – in them. It was thanks to them that you were able to escape that flash flood on your journey here."

"And he also told me of this place before I ever arrived," Ayla added. She looked up to Falling Rock, perched at the moment of collapse for centuries, and remembered how she had seen it constantly in her dreams and visions, with Creb's guiding spirit there to lead her on. It was how she knew that she belonged here, with these people. They were her family now, and more importantly, the place where she was creating her own family. It was home.

"We must admit, you have a history of being right," Marthona said, looking glumly at the mate of her son. "Which is what I am afraid of."

"What do you mean?" Ayla asked.

"Ayla, have you thought about what it would mean if the Mother were to actually leave us, as your vision suggests?"

The tall blonde shuddered, and Jonayla started fussing. To calm herself, and her child, Ayla began stroking her daughter's soft blonde hair, humming to herself. She seldom did it without thinking of Baby, the cave lion cub who had shared her loneliness in that remote valley of the horses, and made it bearable. And that made her think of her first-born, and how she missed him. Her life had been one of hardship and suffering, constantly torn from the people she loved, constantly forced to find new families, new homes. And she herself had been torn from her mother before she could even remember her, a mother she remembered nothing of save for an impression of a golden glow and a low gentle humming, the same sound she was making in turn to her daughter. That was what losing the Mother mean to Ayla: a sundering of roots and home, condemned to wander the earth for eternity, never finding a home.

She said as much to Marthona, who nodded solemnly.

"It means that, and more," she said. "No more motherhood, no more life. The Mother will no longer provide for us, no longer give us food for the taking, or shelters of stone to live in. We will have nothing. You see why this is a serious issue."

"I do," Ayla said. "But why talk to me about this? I see the visions, I do not control them."

"No, I know that," Marthona said. "However…"

"However what?"

"However there are a few things we need to consider," the older woman said delicately. "You have no idea when this might happen, correct?"

"Yes, that is right," Ayla admitted. "But what does that matter? It will happen – that's the point."

"Perhaps. And perhaps not," Marthona said slowly. "Ayla," she added, looking her in the eye, "we who have power, whether sacred or secular, also have responsibility. You understand that, correct?"

"Of course," Ayla said. "The clan leader always takes responsibility for his members, just as the One Who Serves does for ensuring the continuing blessings of the Mother." This was commonsense stuff, and she did not know why Marthona was bringing it up.

"Well, as a person of some influence, I, and Zelandoni, and of course Joharran, have a responsibility to everyone who lives in the Ninth Cave."

"Of course," Ayla said, still puzzled. She wiped away a bit of drool from Jonayla's mouth as her child settled into a comfortable slumber.

"The problem Ayla, is that people are worried. Rumours of your abilities and your visions have caused a certain amount of anxiety. People have been talking. Some say that you are the one who will bring this upon us."

"Me? Why? I cannot do anything about it. I am not the cause of it," Ayla said, suddenly wondering what the older woman was on about.

"I know you are not," Marthona reassured her. "But not everyone thinks as I do."

She stopped, and looked directly at Ayla. "There are even some who say that you should leave. That you are cursed."

Ayla felt her heart stop. The world contracted around her, focusing on a single point, on Marthona's face. She saw every pore, every line, every freckle clearly, but it wasn't Marthona's face she was seeing, it was Broud's, as he ordered her Cursed with Death. Never again! She would never again give up her child! She would not! She clutched Jonayla close to her, and for the first time in ages, lost control.

"You'll never take my child! I won't leave her! She's mine, and I refuse to go!"

Sobbing, Ayla jumped up and ran off, blindly, not knowing where she was headed. Behind her Marthona did her best to follow, calling out to her to stop. But Ayla did not hear. She was back with the Clan, holding Durc tight as each member of her family, her friends, her entire universe gradually sealed itself off from her, shutting her out. Ayla ran and ran, and only stopped when Jonayla, frightened by the commotion, began to cry. Immediately Ayla stopped and hugged her child close.

"I'll never leave you, never! You can still see me, you can know me. I'm here, I'm not dead! Oh my son, I will never leave you. Your mother will never forsake you, I swear!"

Keening a wordless lament, she collapsed on the ground, rocking gently as she wept. After a few moments she felt a gently touch on her shoulder, felt herself pulled around to face the ashen Marthona.

"Ayla, my child," she said. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realise how upset you would be. I forgot about what happened with your first-born. We would never dream of taking your child, or sending you away. You are our family now, our people. You are Ayla of the Zelandonii, and nothing and nobody can ever take that away from you."

Weeping, Ayla allowed herself to be hugged by the mother of her mate, and after a while her sobs died down, her heart returned to normal, and she could speak.

"How could they think I would, I would bring this about?" she asked. "I know more than anyone the pain of leaving a child – I would never do anything to cause the Mother to leave us."

"I know, I know," Marthona said, comforting the tall blonde woman. "I know you are not the cause of this, and I will never let anyone say so."

Marthona thought back to the fear-filled face of Marona as she beseeched the mother of the Leader to do something about Ayla, to stop the fearful rumours, and prevent the disaster that was looming. She had agreed to have a talk with Ayla largely to try and pacify Marona, who if she wasn't the direct source of the rumours, would certainly be more likely than not to help spread them. So if she could be convinced that something was going to be done, then perhaps the rumours would die down. Marthona knew that rumour and panic could destroy a community as surely as starvation. Something would have to be done. But she rejected out of hand trying to persuade Ayla to retract her statements.

"I cannot explain why I am seeing these things," Ayla said helplessly. "Ever since that time, in the cave ceremony, with Creb and the other Mog-Urs, it's been… It's as if there's some sort of… I don't know. But I do know this," she added firmly, looking at Marthona with a fierce determination. "No mother would ever willingly leave her child. No matter what the child has done, a mother does not stop loving her."

"But we do need to please her, or else she may withhold her gifts," Marthona said uncertainly.

"We need to please her, to show her respect and thanks," Ayla agreed. "And she may punish us from time to time with holding back: game may be scarce, or flint continuously break. But leave us? Never!"

"Then how do you explain your visions?" Marthona asked.

"The Mother may never willingly leave us," Ayla said slowly. "But perhaps we could drive her away…."

* * *

The great silver ship swung low over the blue surface of the planet, glittering in the reflected light from the vast polar ice caps. Soundlessly, it slid to a halt above a green-brown piece of land that would one day be known as France, and waited. After a short pause, a bright green beam of light flashed out from the belly of the ship, stabbing down through the clear skies to the ground. It flickered, and intensified, and a few moments later began to contract, a tiny dark shape caught in its tip. The beam soon reached the ship, and flickered out of existence as the small black shape was absorbed by the larger silver creature.

"Shuttle retrieved sir," came La Forge's voice.

"Good work, Geordi," Riker said. He was standing on the elevated platform of the transporter room along with Worf and Barclay. All three men were wearing thick fur and leather parkas and leggings, and the transporter technician was having trouble keeping the grin off his face as he input the coordinates. "How close can you get us, ensign?" Riker asked.

"Well, sir, there's some interference from the various particles that were leaking from the shuttle. For safety's sake, I'll need to put you down at least 1500 metres from the site."

Riker nodded. "That's fine. Beam us down," he said, checking that his leather satchel was secure on his shoulder.

The technician pressed a few switches, and then slid his fingers up the touch-sensitive panel. The minute random variations produced by human rather than computer control were the key for the smooth working of the transporter, in particular the Heisenberg Compensators, as they introduced a vital unstable element into the chaos matrix equations without being too variable.

Riker saw the familiar silver-blue haze envelope him, shimmering in non-space, and felt the normal stomach twist of being instantly shredded and reassembled. As soon as he had felt it, however, the shimmerings faded, and he found himself standing on a wide grassy plain, dotted with trees.

Worf took out his tricorder, and scanned the area. "The shuttle was just over that ridge," he said, pointing.

"Oh, good," Barclay said, fiddling with the edge of his parka sleeve. He was always relieved to find himself standing on solid ground after a transport. "Not far to walk then."

"What's wrong, lieutenant," Riker grinned. "Don't want to enjoy a hike in the pristine wilderness of pre-civilisation Earth?"

"There could be sabre-tooth tigers in this long grass," Barclay muttered as he started off after the other two.

"Excellent," Worf said. "I hope there are." He knew very little about prehistoric Earth, but one exhibit he had seen in a museum in his Siberian foster-parents hometown had stuck with him for years. The replica of a giant cat, twice the size of a Klingon K'har-beast, had fascinated the young boy. Worf had stayed for hours in front of the diorama, mesmerised by those twenty-centimetre fangs jutting out from the animal's jaw as it stood there in an eternal leap. The greatest set of teeth he had ever seen, a truly worthy adversary for a Klingon hunter. He would have loved to be able to stalk and slay a Smilodon, and display its ferocious jaws in his quarters. It was almost impossible to believe that this wonderful animal was a distant ancestor of Data's pussy Spot. How the mighty had fallen, Worf thought to himself as he tramped through the long grass, his hunter's instinct on high alert, his phaser resting comfortably in his hand.

After about half an hour they came to a low ridge, and mounted it.

"Looks like it was a nasty landing," Riker said as he surveyed the long gash in the ground, the freshly-exposed earth churned up in long furrows. "Several hundred metres at least. Get the neutralisers set up – I hope we have enough. If not, we'll do it in two lots."

Worf and Barclay immediately set to work, setting up a number of small cylinders that stood on tripods. Each cylinder was activated by twisting the top and pressing a few commands, and once they were all in place along the gash, Riker used his tricorder to set off a series of short pulses from the Schrödinger Neutraliser array that absorbed and nullified the effects of all short-band radiation on organic molecules.

"What can we do about the chronometric particles?" Barclay asked as they began the tedious work of collecting the used neutralisers, and Riker was surveying the area with his tricorder.

"There's not a lot we can do," Riker admitted. "However without a powerful energy source, they're basically harmless. No threat to the ecosystem at any rate. They will disperse at their own rate."

"Which is impossible to predict," Barclay added. Chronometric particles, like all radioactive particles, had a decay pattern measured in half-lives, but unlike normal radioactive particles, the chrono-particle half-life was not temporarily linear: by their very nature, time behaved very differently. It was not uncommon for a chrono-particle half-life to end before it was created, an apparent paradox that drove more than one budding temporal physicist to drink heavily.

"Riker to Enterprise."

"Enterprise here, Commander," came La Forge's voice.

"We've decontaminated the crash site. Shouldn't be any problems here. How's the shuttle?"

"So much scrap metal," La Forge admitted. "We'll recycle what we can, and then de-atomise the rest for its raw materials. Radiation levels are within tolerances, so that won't be a problem."

"Good work," Riker said. "We're heading off to the cave site where the captain and Commander Data are now."

"The weather should hold for now, though there's a cold front coming in from the north-north west," La Forge said. "You should have three or four hours before it hits though."

"Should be ample time," Riker said. "I'll contact you again when we reach the captain and find out what his plans are. In the meantime I want you to beam up the neutralisers. I don't want to carry them all the way to the caves."

"Good idea sir," La Forge said.

In a few moments they had the devices assembled in a pile, and at a command from Riker they flickered out of existence.

"Got them," came La Forge's voice a few seconds later. "Good luck, Commander."

"Thanks Geordie. Riker out."

The commander looked down at his companions. "Well, let's get moving. We don't want to be out here when that weather front hits. Not in the Ice Age…."

* * *

Picard was squatting near Jondalar, watching the tall blond man select a new angle for the blade he was pressure-flaking. The starship captain was fascinated by the sophistication of the techniques, by the tremendous amount of thought and experience that went into each blow. The material might be simple stone, the tools unimaginably crude by his standards, but the level of intelligence and training was the same as any engineer in Starfleet.

Every time Picard thought he had managed to see these people as his equals intellectually, he realised that there was still some part of him that kept confusing technology and intellect. For centuries, the human race had striven to create more sophisticated technology, based on a belief in the desirability of progress and the ultimate ability of science and technology to conquer all ills. To a large extent they had been right, and the world of the 24th century was the most peaceful and prosperous the human race had ever known. Famine, poverty, and war had been eliminated from Earth, but at the same time there was also a pervasive belief that all technology was good, and the more technology, the better a civilisation was. Technology had supplanted the intellectual as a basis for determining the desirability of a thing. Even the Prime Directive was based on a technology-determined, rather than an intellectual, level of civilisation.

Living in a world where even the time and amount of rainfall was controlled by vast arrays of inhuman machines, Picard realised that despite his love of archaeology that he too was a product of his times: despite his near-professional pursuit of archaeology, having studied the Iconian culture since his cadet days and having even addressed the Federation Archaeological Council as keynote speaker on his oft-studied Tagus III ruins in 2367, he realised that he had always tended to see the cultures as things, comprised of assembled artifacts, rather than peoples. It was an all-too-easy mistake to make, he realised glumly as he watched the blade take shape under Jondalar's skilled hands. After all, archaeology dealt with things: pots, shards, ruins, and remains – things, not people. And it was all too easy to believe that simple and crude artifacts indicated simple and crude people. That was a trap mistake he would never make again. These people were as sophisticated in their own way as his.

He stood up, stretching his cramped legs, and decided it was time to talk to Ayla about her visions. After a brief search of the main abri, he spotted Marthona, and hurried over to her.

"So you have finally decided to tell her the truth, have you?" the older woman asked after he had stated his purpose.

"I was mistaken before – I did not think she would be able to understand," Picard said. "But I have been thinking, and perhaps I can offer her some insights."

"She deserves no less," Marthona said, trying to keep her voice calm. "She does not wish these visions, you understand. She does not cause them, and she worries more than anyone about their meaning. Any help you can offer her would be much appreciated."

"I'll do my best," Picard said. "Where is she?"

"She is probably at the Cave of the Spirals," Marthona said. She gave him directions, then added, "You have a responsibility in this, Picard. As One Who Serves, you must guide her, help her to find the truth. That should surmount all other goals. I'll tell you frankly: there are rumours among the members of the Ninth Cave, rumours that must be stopped."

"What sort of rumours?" Picard asked, fearing the worst. Marthona's reply did nothing to assuage his worries.

"Some think that Ayla herself will be the cause of the Mother leaving us. I do not agree, and have spoken firmly with the person who suggested this to me, but it is not something we can ignore. I am not One Who Serves, I cannot answer her questions. Even Zelandoni has her limits. But you are older than her, and have Served for longer. Ayla also trusts you, for some reason. She seems to think it was no accident that she saw you first, out on the grasslands, just as her visions began to get stronger."

Picard sighed, knowing that it really was a coincidence, but that belief in the meaning of such was very powerful – one of the most powerful, and hardest to dissuade. The human need for patterns, for order, was one of the most powerful driving engines behind the rise of science and rationality, behind the mastery of the environment, but when shorn of critical thinking abilities, it all too often manifested itself in such superstitions as astrology and feng shui, where minor coincidences were magnified by the belief that there was an underlying rationality behind them – or that the one time thinking about a friend moments before they called cancelled out the many times thinking about them had not been followed by a call. So it was with these people: while not lacking in intelligence, they had not been trained in critical thinking, and had no way of understanding the difference between coincidence and causality.

"I will give her all the help I can," he said. "I admit, I have been reluctant to tell her everything. Too much knowledge could be dangerous, both for her and for your people. But I think it is important she know some of the truth."

"Thank you, Picard," Marthona said. She paused, thinking, and then added, "There is no need to worry, is there?"

"The Mother will not leave you," Picard said calmly, gratified by her expression of relief, but upset about pretending to a belief he did not share.

"Then Ayla was right," Marthona breathed. "Go to her, tell her that."

"I will," Picard said. "I'll ask Data to talk to you about confining the rumours. Thank you for being so understanding."

* * *

**NOTES:**

All the guff about Picard's hobbies is canon, based on stuff in Memory Alpha and so on. Chronometric particles are just nonsense, but canon nonsense at least. The stuff about their half-life, however, I have just made up.

There's a reason why I chose Worf and Barclay for this away mission. Worf will have his uses, certainly, and Barclay is there for that sort of "everyman" viewpoint, and some light comedy later on.

**PS**: Four reviews! I have no idea how people are finding this, but I'm glad they are. Thanks to everyone who has left a note!


	15. Cave of the Spiral

**15\. Cave of the Spiral**

Following the directions Marthona had given him, Picard soon found himself at the entrance to a small cave, nearly hidden by a large pile of fallen rocks. He climbed over them, and once through the small entrance he found himself in a large chamber, almost four metres high, and at least twenty wide. The interior was gloomy, and there was a musty wet smell about the place. His eyes soon adjusted, and he was able to make out Ayla's shape sitting on a rock near the far wall. He headed over there to join her.

There was a short silence, broken only by the sound of dripping water from somewhere deeper in the cave. Picard looked at Ayla, who was absorbed in tracing a crude spiral shape that had been carved in the stone. When she got to the end she turned and acknowledged Picard for the first time.

"Do you recognise this?" she asked.

Picard shook his head. "It's a spiral. I do not know what it means."

"This was not carved by the Ninth Cave, nor by any peoples living nearby," Ayla said slowly. "This is a Clan carving, one of the few marks in the stone we – they make."

"What does it mean?" Picard asked.

"I do not know," Ayla sighed. "Such knowledge was reserved for the Mog-Urs, the wise men. All I know is that it was important, a sign of power and mystery."

"Marthona called this the Cave of the Spiral," Picard said. "Is this what she meant?"

"Yes, the Others know of this mark, but not who made it. I have told some, but many people resist the idea that Clan could have made such carvings."

"As it is with my people," Picard said. He was astounded by the discovery. Here was direct proof of abstract art being practised by Neanderthals. Something that experts had long decried as not possible. He touched the worn lines, feeling the surface. Worn smooth by hundreds of hands over more centuries than he could begin to imagine, this simple shape had clearly held a deep meaning for the men who had carved it and used it in whatever long-lost rituals they had practised. He knew the spiral motif was common throughout history – in Europe, it often represented the labyrinth, the inward circle towards knowledge and enlightenment. Still found on many church floors, it was in fact a symbol far older than Christianity. And now he knew just how much older….

"My people lived here once," Ayla said sadly. "Long before the Others. Long ago, more moons than anyone can count. No one remembers. But I know they did – I know it from these markings, and from the visions I have had of the Falling Rock. Creb told me they had, through those visions. Why do you think they left?" she finished, looking at Picard intently.

"What do you think?" he responded, feeling sure she had already thought about this.

"I think they were driven away," Ayla said flatly. "By men of the Others."

She looked at Picard, wondering what his reaction would be. She only told Jondalar and Zelandoni her theories, and both had clearly been sceptical. But Picard was just as clearly not: she saw him nod in agreement.

"It is very likely," he said. "The men of the Others, what we call Cro Magnons, displaced the Clan, the Neanderthals, everywhere that we know of. We do not know how, although there are many theories."

Ayla's mind flashed to her vision of her two children, Durc and the man of the Others, facing each other, a confrontation looming.

"Will they fight each other?" she asked, her fear evident.

"We do not think so," Picard said, to her immense relief. "There may be isolated cases of intertribal warfare, but there is no evidence of genocide."

"What is this word, genocide?" Ayla asked, puzzled. She was extremely good at Zelandonii, but every so often there was a new word that stumped her. This one was very confusing – it did not even sound like Zelandonii.

"It means when one tribe completely destroys another tribe by killing them all," Picard explained, his face a mask.

Ayla shuddered. She did not want to even think about the possibility.

"But as I said, it is not likely," Picard said, his voice more cheerful. "In fact, based on what you have told me of your own past, of Durc and Rydag and Brukeval, and from what some of our own people have suggested, I think that they never really left – that among some peoples, there still flows the blood of the Neanderthal, however faintly."

"So the Clan and the Others became one people?" Ayla asked expectantly.

"It is possible," Picard said. "Perhaps your vision is not of conflict, but of two peoples coming together. The Clan have already vanished from our lands, but we can still see traces of them in some of our people.

Ayla looked at Picard's forehead, at the way it sloped back much more steeply than hers or Jondalar's. Could he himself have Clan ancestry, she wondered. While much slimmer than Brun, there was something of the noble leader of the Clan of the Cave Bear in Picard's large nose and forehead, and perhaps something of Creb in his eyes. It was possible, she thought….

"In my last vision, I saw you," she said eventually.

Picard's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Me? In what way?"

"You were there to guide me, I think. I'm not sure. I thought I was seeing Creb, but as I got closer it was you, I think. Creb often appears in my visions, to guide me, show me the way, but this time it was you. I think this was something to do with the images of the future I see, the ones where Creb cannot follow. It was almost as if you were there in his place," she finished, her eyes probing his face in the semi-gloom.

"I do not want to speculate about that," Picard said slowly. It was probably just the experience of meeting him and her fears over her visions that had prompted it, after all. Nothing to get worked up over. "There is something else I need to examine," he added.

"What?"

Picard took out the medical tricorder her had been carrying, and showed her the small diagnostic bulb. Ayla's eyes widened, and she looked at him expectantly.

"What do you need to do with that?" she asked.

"I would like to check you for certain signs," Picard said. "Signs that might have some connection to your visions – we're not sure."

"With that small object? The one Data used to bless your broken leg?" she asked.

"Yes," Picard said, not prepared to volunteer further information. "Do you mind?"

"Do I need to do anything to prepare?" she asked, a slightly nervous quaver in her voice.

"No, nothing," Picard said, moving the sensor over her briefly, and then examining the readouts. As Data had predicted, she was reading very high concentrations of chronometric particles. Nothing life-threatening, but he wasn't happy with leaving her affected. He would have to get the Enterprise to send down some specialised equipment for removing them, for the simple shuttle medkit was not equipped for such complex operations. He put the tricorder away, glad to hide its flashing lights and readouts. Ayla had accepted them to some extent based on her ideas of magic and religion, and her own experiences with fire and sparks, but he didn't want her probing any deeper. He wondered about the possible correlation between the chronometric particles and the visions. Data had said earlier that there was unlikely to be a connection, but Picard was starting to have his doubts. The nature of chronometric particles meant that their effects were not necessarily linear, not in the way the normal universe operated. But whether or not they could in fact cause visions of the future he had no idea. Nor would they explain what Ayla had told him of Creb's abilities, the source of her own visions. There must be something more to it, something deeper. But in the meantime, at least he could reassure her on one thing.

"Ayla, the visions you saw were indeed of the future. I told you this before. But now I can tell you why I know this. I too have seen what you have seen." he said.

"You have? You have visions as well?"

"No, not like yours," Picard said, looking at the spiralling lines on the rock wall, as far beyond Ayla's time as hers was beyond his. "I have seen the things you describe, yet I am at a loss to explain how you have seen them. Or how this man Creb could send his mind into the far deep past. It doesn't make sense, and yet there is no way he could have known the things you say he showed you without having seen them himself. How can mere thought be enough to transcend time and space in this way? And yet…."

Picard trailed off, thinking of the enigmatic figure known as The Traveller, a being from a remote world who had explained the connection between thought and time and space. He knew there were very few humans who had the ability to understand the connection, to be able to make those connections. Could this disfigured and crippled Neanderthal man have been one, however? The Neanderthal brain was bigger than that of modern humans – was this the reason?

"Did Creb really see these things, really guide you to the past and the future?" he asked, looking at Ayla with questioning eyes. "Did he understand what he was doing? Could there be a part of the Neanderthal brain that grasped this more than our smaller brains?" Picard added, lost in thought. He stood up and went to the rockface, looking at the ancient markings on it, the enigmatic spiral form. "Could that explain the visions you describe Creb as having? Did the Neanderthals have some rudimentary grasp of this fundamental underlying nature of the cosmos?"

He turned towards Ayla, his face lit up with excitement. "If this means what I think it might mean, Ayla," he said, "then you weren't just having visions. You were actually seeing these things. Your mind was connected by the power of Creb's brain to actually see these things – these real visions of the past and the future."

Ayla was stunned. Was Picard right? No, they were visions, like dreams in her head – she never left. People around could see her: they knew she was there. She said as much to Picard.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "Your body didn't move – your mind did. You were travelling without moving. It is like…like looking through a window. You are inside, but you can see outside at the same time."

"Like when a Seer goes searching for game?" Ayla asked.

Picard's face suddenly clouded. That was a whole other matter: whatever the possible powers of the Neanderthals, he was immensely sceptical of claims by primitive tribes that they could send their spirits on journeys into other planes or parts of the world. It was too controlled, too specific, unlike the random, generalised visions Ayla described. Humans simple did not – could not – possess that kind of control.

"Different, I think," Picard said eventually. "But this idea of the Clan – the way they can access the deep past – is interesting. But you said Creb could not see the future?"

"No, he could not," Ayla said. "It worried him, especially as I could. That's what made him – and I – think that perhaps the Clan had no future."

"Perhaps," Picard mused. "Perhaps not. After all, your own visions are of the future and not of the past, but that does not mean you have no past, after all."

"But my visions aren't based on memories like Creb's," Ayla explained.

"No memories can possibly give you that much information," Picard said with certainty. "You could never remember being a single-celled animal as such animals do not have any consciousness in order to remember. They have no brains, no way to remember – they are little more than biological machines. What Creb saw, and what you saw through Creb, was vision, not actual memory. You were there, or at least seeing these things. But how that vision could come about is a puzzle, I admit."

"So what do my visions of the future mean?" Ayla asked.

"I honestly do not know what they mean, if anything. I know they are accurate, in what you see, for I have seen it too. But I cannot tell you what it means as I do not know myself. All I can say is what I said earlier – I do not believe it means anything bad. I do not think you need to worry about the Mother leaving you."

"Jean-Luc, do you think it is possible that we could drive her away?" Ayla asked.

"How do you mean?"

"I am a mother myself – I know that no mother would ever willingly abandon her children. But could we be the ones that abandon her, drive her away?" She thought back to the mysterious scar in the earth she had seen just before she met Jean-Luc and Data. He had warned her it was dangerous, and she wondered if it was a sign of things to come, of many more scars in the body of the Mother than would end up driving her away. Suddenly she felt a wave of dizziness, and felt ill. It was over almost as soon as it had begun, and Picard had not noticed. This wasn't the first time, either. Could she be Blessed again, she wondered? She knew dizziness and nausea were sometimes associated with being Blessed, though it was surprisingly soon after Jonayla – she hadn't even weaned her. Two babies in quick succession could be hard not only on the mother's body but on her milk supply, and it was rare that women got pregnant before their previous-born was weaned.

"It may be possible to drive the Mother away," Picard admitted. "But I do not know how it could be done."

He truly does not know, Ayla realised. Perhaps it is not something that can be done. Or perhaps it is something that has never been thought about because it is too horrible to contemplate. Suddenly wanting to see Jonayla again, she stood up, doing her best to brush her fears aside with the image of her own child.

"Thank you for telling me these things, Jean-Luc," she said. "It is good to know that the visions are not my burden alone."

"They do not bring danger, of that I am sure," Picard said, following Ayla out of the cave. The sun was low in the sky, and as they made their way back to the Ninth Cave their path was lit up in the flaming reds and golds of the sunset. High above, a few stars could already be seen, including a new one that Picard knew to be the Enterprise, high above them in a geostationary orbit. It was a comforting thought to know that home was so close, but for the moment he had no desire to return. Not before he had found out what was causing these visions, and why Ayla seemed to know what other parts of the galaxy, space stations, and starship warp trails looked like.

* * *

"You should be getting very close, Commander." La Forge's voice was clear in his skull as Riker made his way down the well-worn path that led to the valley floor. The three members of the Away Team had all had subcutaneous transceivers implanted: it was standard procedure for pre-warp civilisations.

"Thanks for keeping us on track," Riker responded.

"My pleasure, commander. Enjoy your stay in the stone age," La Forge said. "Enterprise out."

"Okay, Worf, put that phaser out sight," Riker ordered as they carried down the path. The sun was setting, and he could see smoke from cooking fires ahead. His heart was pounding as he walked. In a few moments he would be face to face with humans from the ice age, living in caves and wearing animal skins for clothing. He wondered how they would be received – with open arms, or with hostility? Would it be wise to walk straight in?

Riker stopped, and opened his tricorder. He quickly scanned the area, looking for Picard's com-badge signal. He was close by, but not alone – another human life form was reading next to him. That meant that Picard would be unable to reply easily to a hail, but he should be able to respond in other ways.

"Riker to Picard. We have arrived at the valley floor near the cave. Awaiting advice on suitable approach tactics."

There was no reply, and he was expecting none. They would simply wait where they were until the captain was able to contact them. They didn't have to wait long. In a few moments Riker saw the familiar figure of his captain striding towards them along the riverbank, accompanied by a tall blonde woman of striking beauty.

"Will? Is that you?" Picard called out as they neared.

"Good to see you again, Captain," Riker said as he stepped forward. He could see the surprise on the woman's face, and a brief flash of fear. Picard whispered something to her, and took her hand, which seemed to encourage her. She smiled at him, somewhat nervously, but clearly welcoming him.

"Will, Worf, Reg," Picard said, greeting them. "May I present Ayla of the Zelandonii, healer, mated to Jondalar, brother of the leader of the Ninth Cave. Ayla, these are the companions I told you about. They have arrived rather sooner than I expected. This is Will Riker, Worf, and Reginald Barclay."

"In the name of Donii, the Great Mother, welcome to the Ninth Cave," Ayla said, stepping forward with her hands extended. She gasped as she saw Worf, but quickly recovered her composure. She found it hard to take her eyes off him, however. He was tall, though not nearly as tall as Jondalar, but he was also almost as heavily muscled as a man of the Clan. His skin was dark as well, even darker than Ranec's had been. But it was his forehead that was the strangest part of him – it was creased into ridges and furrows, almost like bones. She had never seen anything like it. Could there be other types of humans beside the Clan and the Others? She had never heard of any, but perhaps there were different peoples in the far-off lands to the west. After all, Hochaman was also different to both the Zelandonii and Ranec.

"Ayla, thank you for your hospitality," Riker said, in faint disbelief that he was standing in the middle of Ice-Age France talking to a cave woman. She was a serious looker too, he thought as he gazed into her blue-grey eyes. Then she smiled, and Riker felt his knees almost give way. She was stunningly beautiful, almost impossibly so.

"Jean-Luc has helped me much with understanding the ways of the Mother," Ayla replied, although Riker only faintly heard her words. "Are you also One Who Serves?"

"Huh? One who what?" Riker asked, suddenly snapped into consciousness by the strangeness of the title.

"Will is my second-in-command," Picard said smoothly, covering his first officer's momentary lapse of concentration. "He attends to the more practical day-to-day matters of the Enterprise."

"Your tribe, of course," Ayla said. So it was similar to the way the Mamutoi operated: there was a spiritual leader and a secular leader, the spiritual being higher in rank than the secular. She looked expectantly at the other two, waiting for Picard to introduce them.

"This is Worf," Picard added, dropping his rank. "He is the great hunter I told you about."

"Welcome, in the name of the Mother," Ayla said. It did not escape her notice that on being referred to as a 'great hunter' Worf had visibly swelled with pride. She could tell that not only did he take great pride in his prowess, but that he had a very deep level of respect for his leader. She had not seen that level of pride in the spiritual leader by the hunters since the respect shown by the Clan towards Creb, the awe-inspiring Mog-Ur, Chosen by Ursus.

"And this is Reg Barclay," Picard concluded.

Barclay nodded nervously, holding out his hand.

"Wonderful to meet you, uh, Miss Ayla," he said. "I hope we shan't be any trouble. We won't stay long."

"Our hearth is your hearth," Ayla said. "And winter is setting in – it will be dangerous to travel before too long."

"We must leave after the cave ceremony, Ayla," Picard said. "We do not have far to go, so do not worry about that."

Ayla's face showed her disappointment. She had hoped that Picard would stay at least for the winter – it was nice to have someone to talk about more spiritual matters. Zelandoni was intelligent and wise, but there was still a certain amount of friction there.

"Where is Data?" Riker asked, looking around.

"Here," came Data's voice. "I apologise for being late – I did not realise you had arrived." His inbuilt transceiver had registered their arrival, but he had been talking to Marthona about what Marona had said to him, and had not been able to immediately leave without a good reason.

"It is good to see you, sir," Worf said, inclining his head.

"Thank you. It is good to see you and Commander Riker too. As well as you, Lieutenant Barclay."

Ayla was somewhat confused by the words in front of their names – clearly some sort of rank titles, but she wondered why it was necessary to constantly repeat them.

"Please, come and join us for the evening meal," she said, motioning the way to the abri, now just a black shape in the dark cliff-face, dotted with glows from hearths. "We would have prepared a feast had we known you were coming so soon, but in the meantime perhaps you can do us the honour of sharing our fire tonight."

"We would be honoured," Riker said, looking up at the gaping maw of the cave with some trepidation. He could see fires here and there, and the shapes of people moving back and forth. "Just like camping out," he muttered to himself as he started up the slope.

"I never enjoyed camping," Barclay admitted beside him. "Too many bugs. Could we spend the night back on the Enterprise instead?"

"You'll enjoy this, Reg," Riker said, enjoying the nervous engineer's discomfort. He had included Barclay in the away team for several reasons, but one was definitely to toughen him up, show him something of the real world, without constantly being surrounded by technology.

"Yes, sir," Barclay said, clearly not at all reassured. His stomach was twisting as he thought about the evening and night to come. What kind of food did these people eat? Would he be expected to eat half-raw chunks of mammoth or something? And what about sanitation? No plumbing or anything like that – no concepts of germs or disease or anything. He knew some primitive societies on Earth had made alcoholic liquor by spitting chewed roots into a bowl and letting them ferment – what if he was expected to drink something like that? His hands were sweating, and he was sure his heart rate was at an unhealthy level. Taking deep breaths, the way Counsellor Troi had taught him, he followed the others into the yawning void.

Bringing up the rear, Picard smiled to himself. Things would get a lot more interesting from here on in, he thought.

.

* * *

**NOTES:**

I hope Picard's thoughts apply to the story as well….

The world's oldest known art is believed to be done by Neanderthals, from the age, but it is shapes of hands, not a carved spiral. So that is made up.

Ranec in EC was a half-black half-white resident of the Mammoth Hunters clan. Hochaman is presented as East Asian in appearance in the story.

Wow, five reviews – people are finding (and reading!) this. Thanks, Guest. I try and update about once a week at least. If you register you can get automatic notifications.


	16. The Way of the Hunter

**16\. The Way of the Hunter**

The fire danced in the last fading remnants of twilight, casting strange shadows on the walls and roof of the rock shelter. Riker was grinning like a madman as he tore into a large fleshy chunk of venison with a gusto he had not felt for years. It was strangely liberating to be able to forgo the knives and forks and plates and spoons and napkins and butter-knives and whelk forks and compote spoons and all the other myriad of nonsense developed over the centuries to make eating less and less about pleasure and more and more about refinement and manners and social rank. He swallowed his meat, wiped the blood off his chin with a scrap of old soft leather, and eagerly reached for another piece.

Beside him, Worf was sucking at a leg-bone he had snapped to get at the soft rich marrow. He looked around him at the humans, both familiar and new, and marvelled that they were the same species. He could never imagine Federation humans voluntarily eating like this – Riker was enjoying it, but Worf knew there was a little bit of Klingon in Riker: his short service aboard a Klingon Bird-of-Prey had ended in Riker physically attacking its commander in the best Klingon tradition, after all. The Captain was eager as well, but Worf knew that Picard was almost infinitely adaptable, and a consummate diplomat: if he was disgusted by the meal of real meat, then he was hiding it like a Vulcan. Unlike Barclay, who was nervously picking at his soup, and had gone even paler than usual when he was told that the dinner would be made from real animal flesh. The Federation had long ago found it far more productive to use replicators to create meat, and few humans ever had the chance to try it. Unless they came to Qonos, the Klingon Homeworld, Worf thought. There, there was meat, plenty of it; raw meat off the bone, bloody and dripping with its life essences, or seared over hot flames that sealed in the juices. But the best meat of all was meat that you had killed yourself – that you had hunted and won. That was bound to you, linked soul to soul as you gazed into the dying animal's eyes and thanked it for its death. Hopefully he would get a chance to go hunting here, and see how these humans managed it. He crunched the bone in his powerful jaws and tasted the sweet whiteness inside, then threw the bone over the fire, watching it arc into the blackness beyond.

Ayla was watching all three of the new arrivals, puzzled by them. When she had heard that companions of Picard had joined him, she was both eager to learn more about their society and about Picard, and apprehensive about their purpose. The leader of the new arrivals, a tall bearded man named Will, had explained that Picard and Data had been separated from the group, and they had been looking for them. Again, as with Picard, there was the distinct impression that although they were not lying, they were holding something back. Something very important. Ayla shook her heard briefly to clear those thoughts from her: she was tired of worrying about the Mother and the future and the fate of her people, and was regretting her emotional outburst earlier when talking with Marthona – that wasn't like her, to lose control like that. The Clan would have been scandalised. Iza never really knew why her eyes leaked water, but eventually came to accept it and understand the reasons. But even she was never happy when it happened, and Ayla had long ago learned to hide her true feelings, at least when they were not socially acceptable.

She glanced briefly at Will, who was now drinking Marthona's wine with every evidence of satisfaction, and focused her attention on the other two, who were both very different from the leaders, and very different from each other. The tall powerful one, Worf, she remembered from hearing Picard talk about him. Yes, he certainly looked like a powerful hunter, an asset to any cave. His deeply-scarred forehead showed he was no stranger to getting in close, like the Clan. She was comforted by him in a strange way. The scars made him look a little like Creb, she thought. What animal did it, I wonder? Like Creb, like Jondalar, and like me, he must have been chosen by some animal to bear its totem. What would his be? It must be big and powerful. A cave lion? A dirk-toothed tiger? She would ask him later, and perhaps see if he wanted a totem of his own. She knew how to give him one, or rather how to make the totem spirit and the man aware of each other, for truly it was not possible to _give_ a totem: totems chose you, not the other way around. Ayla knew she would never voluntarily have submitted to a mauling from a cave lion, but she was constantly grateful for the guidance of its totem spirit. Perhaps Worf would be as well, she thought as she looked at the calm strength of the man. There was something of Brun in his demeanour, and his physique was closer to Clan than any she had seen before. She found herself seriously wondering if he had any Clan in him – perhaps the mother of his mother, or something? She would ask him later, if she had the chance. She found herself warmed by his presence, in a brotherly way that Jondalar was not. She liked Worf.

But the other man, Reg, she was not so sure about. He was obviously ill at ease, uncertain about everything around him, constantly looking from one person to another, and there was something very delicate, almost feminine, about his movements. Yet she sensed this was not from an innate reason: there was clearly something about the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii which repulsed him to some extent. Suddenly Ayla wondered if that was the reason for the reticence of her visitors: could their home cave, for whatever reason, dislike the Zelandonii? It happened sometimes, she knew – sometimes, for example, there would be irreconcilable personal conflicts in a cave, and they would split. One of the neighbouring tribes of the Mamutoi was said to be hostile and aggressive. While there was no actual fighting any more, she had heard stories that in the past sometimes they had actually even hunted each other, man upon man just like man upon beast. Ayla shuddered at the thought.

Over the hearthfire from Ayla, Barclay nervously picked at his meal, wondering just what was in it. He was determined to show himself as bold and eager, especially to Riker. But this was a bit more than he had expected: nothing in his training at Starfleet had suggested that he would be one day sharing a meal with people who could be his remote ancestors. He glanced across the small and cluttered room at their two hosts, the tall and very attractive woman called Ayla, and the even taller man – Jonda-something. Jondalar, that was it. They were wearing much the same clothes as the away team, and he had been surprised to see that their hair was neatly tied and their faces clean.

Barclay suddenly started as Riker spoke to him.

"Sorry, what was that, Commander?"

"Could you pass the wine?"

"Of course, sir." Barclay picked up the soft bag of fermented grape juice, and handed it to Riker. He had a definite suspicion that the bag had once been the inside of a cow or something, and didn't relish the thought of drinking from it. That didn't seem to stop the commander, however, who poured a generous amount into his wooden goblet and raised it towards Ayla and Jondalar.

"Cheers," he said. At Ayla's confused expression, he added, "We say that where we come from. It means 'good health'."

"Why do you say good health before drinking?" Ayla asked.

"It's a sign of respect," Riker said. Beside him, Picard nodded slightly. "Before we drink alcohol, we sometimes wish for the health or prosperity of our friends and family," the commander explained.

"Interesting," Ayla said. "You seem to have many customs that are strange to us."

"And of course the converse applies," Riker said. "I look forward to understanding more of your society, of your culture."

"Jean-Luc has already shown much interest," Ayla said.

"Especially in flint-knapping," Jondalar added with a big smile. He was quite pleased how impressed the wise old man had been with his knapping skills, and was eager to show off his abilities.

"Take a look at this, Will," Picard said, taking out his flint blade and unwrapping it from the soft leather. Riker took the proffered stone and looked at it, wondering what he was supposed to be seeing.

"Nice," he said. "Ouch! That's sharp!"

Picard laughed as Riker sucked his thumb, grimacing as he handed back the blade.

"And easy to keep sharp – just retouch the edges when they get dull," Picard said, running his fingers along the smooth fluting. He wrapped it back up again, and secreted it deep within his furs.

"So how long are you planning to stay?" Jondalar asked.

"As we said to your brother when we arrived, Jondalar, just for the cave ceremony. Then we must head back to our own people."

"It's getting late in the season," Jondalar warned. "We'll get our first snow any day now, and after that it will be increasingly hard to travel. You don't want to be caught out there in a winter storm."

"Thank you for your concern," Riker said. "However we will be fine."

"Yes, we are experienced travellers," Picard said, reassuring them.

"I wish you could stay longer," Ayla said. "I have so much yet to learn – there is so much you could teach me, Jean-Luc."

"Perhaps that is true," Picard said. "But I am not sure that what I could teach you would be very useful."

Ayla looked at him, still wondering, but her anxiety was tempered by the convivial atmosphere, and the wine she had drunk. Picard's face danced in the flames, the heat distorting the image. For a brief moment, it almost looked as if he had but one eye, the other hidden under a heavy layer of scar tissue. She blinked, and it was gone. She looked at him again, and saw he was sitting perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the distance. He looked as if he was listening to something, some distant voice that only he could hear. Then she heard him softly exhale one word:

"Mammoths…"

* * *

"Captain, can you hear me?"

La Forge looked at the viewscreen again, which was showing a huge false-colour picture of France, or what would one day become known as France. A thick band of coloured lines was shown moving up through the Pyrenees and over the Massif Central. A side screen showed a straggled bunch of blinking bio-signs.

La Forge called again, then heard the answered double tap of acknowledgment. The sound was Picard clicking his teeth together as a sign that he was with company, but was able to listen.

"Just thought you'd like to know, Captain. Two things. A fairly nasty front is heading your way; should be there by evening at the latest. Hard to be certain without Federation weather computer models to check, but looks like it could dump up twenty to thirty centimetres of snow on you. We can get you out of there if needed, but there's no rush. A simple snowstorm won't prevent beaming. Oh, and the second one might interest your hosts. We've spotted a cluster of bio-signs heading your way, on a south-south-east course. Rather _large_ bio-signs. _Mammoth_ ones, in fact…"

* * *

"What was that?" Ayla leaned forward, sure nevertheless of what she had heard. "Mammoths?"

Jondalar had heard it too. "What do you mean, mammoths?"

"He's Seen them," Ayla realised. She recognised the signs, the trance-like state of seeing and hearing things that were there and yet not there. "He's One Who Serves, Jondalar, like Mamut. Jean-Luc – you have Seen mammoths – where? Close?"

"It's coming into mammoth season," Jondalar added eagerly. "When the cold season comes, they come south, following the frosts." In the summer, mammoth were to be found in high latitudes, near the great ice sheets that covered much of the globe, but as winter deepened, even they were forced to migrate south.

"Jean-Luc! Mammoths – are they coming?" Ayla asked. She well remembered her last mammoth hunt, with the Mamutoi, far away to the north, where the days were long but cold, in the shadow of the great ice wall. Ayla loved mammoth meat: rich and tender, with large amounts of soft flavoursome fat.

Picard made a slight face. He hadn't intended to say anything aloud, and certainly hadn't expected such a reaction. He chided himself for forgetting the myths of the American Indians and many other hunter-gatherer societies, who believed that wise men could will themselves into trances and send their spirits searching for game. This was clearly what had happened here. As much as it went against his rational nature to appear to endorse superstitions and shamanism, he realised that if he were to try and keep his violations of the Prime Directive to a minimum, he would have to play the role they placed him in. So he nodded, but kept silent. He didn't know the exact parameters of their beliefs in spirit-seeking, and decided to let them lead the conversation.

"Where are they?" Jondalar asked pragmatically. A mammoth kill or two would certainly ease their worries about food for the winter. This was definitely a blessing from the Mother, if true.

"North of here, and a little west," Picard said, somewhat reluctantly.

"How far?"

"I'm not sure," Picard admitted. La Forge hadn't said. "But they're heading in this direction."

"I'll go and tell Joharran," Jondalar said, and hurried out of the room.

Ayla looked at Picard with newfound respect. Seeing was not a simple process: it normally involved chants and special herbs and preparations to release the spirit, yet Picard had done so while casually sitting at the hearthfire. He must have awesome powers, she decided.

Picard looked back at her, feeling helpless. As much as he tried to avoid interfering with her world, it wasn't that simple. He hoped no permanent damage would be done.

"I think we should call it a night as well, Ayla," Riker said, breaking the slightly awkward silence. "Thank you for your generous welcome to unexpected visitors, and for the delicious meal."

"Definitely," Worf agreed, standing up. "I definitely appreciated that. Thank you."

"Yes, you've been most kind," Barclay added as he headed to the door. Picard was left alone with Ayla. They looked at each other, Picard seeing the respect and awe in her eyes, a gaze that reminded him uncomfortably of the Mintakans when they thought of him as a god.

"Good night, Jean-Luc," Ayla eventually said. "I hope your companions enjoyed the meal."

"Yes, thank you Ayla. I'm sure they did – and…I'm sorry," Picard added, looking at the Stone Age woman helplessly. Everything he did seemed to make things more awkward: it was like walking a knife-edge. "I don't mean to disturb your life – I truly do not. All I want is to learn about you and your life, your culture. I don't want to cause you worry. Truly, I do not. For what it's worth, please accept my apologies."

"What was that all about, Captain? What mammoths?" Riker asked as they walked the short distance to the Visitors' Hearth.

"I'll tell you when we get to our room, Will," Picard said, feeling slightly ill at the ideas of him that Ayla and the rest of the Zelandonii were developing. He must at all costs make sure their admiration went no further: their visit must not have any long-lasting effects.

* * *

The morning sun slanted under the abri roof, filling the shelter with the soft yellow light of dawn. Riker shivered under the furs as a cold breeze found a slight gap in the stone wall and whispered over his face, carrying the scent of snow.

"Good morning sir," came Data's voice. "I have prepared some tea for you and Captain Picard, and breakfast will be ready soon."

Riker opened his eyes, seeing the smoke-blackened stone roof above him, and the interior walls of the Visitors' Hearth. It had been a bit of a squeeze to fit them all in, and he had almost been tempted to allow Barclay to return to the Enterprise overnight. But that would not have helped the nervous engineer, whose life was far too sheltered as it was. A brief mission to a peaceful people who had already shown their hospitality to Enterprise crew members would be the perfect toughening-up exercise for Barclay, and so far he was performing well. A bit nervous, but nevertheless coping perfectly adequately. He glanced over at the fur-wrapped form of the engineer lying on the floor next to Worf's furs, and prodded him with his foot. Barclay stirred, and a few seconds later his tousled blond head poked out.

"Go and help Data with the fire," Riker said, motioning to where the android was getting busy with flint and firestone. Picard had directed that while living with the Zelandonii, they would follow their lifestyle as much as practical, in order, he said, to show respect. Riker suspected that the captain was also interested in some practical anthropology and doing his best to experience Paleolithic life as it was lived. No matter – Riker was eager for the challenge. After the all-pervasive technological marvels of the Enterprise, where their very lives were dependent on machines and computers, metal and electricity, it was a refreshing change to get back to the basics of human existence.

"Where's Worf?" Barclay asked, looking around.

"The lieutenant headed out early this morning," Data replied. "He expressed a desire to scout out the land."

"I very much doubt there are dangers here," Riker said. "Most dangerous animals would have learnt to avoid this place long ago."

"Perhaps so," Data admitted. "But I am not sure that was his real purpose."

"You think he just wanted some early morning exercise?" Riker asked, grinning. He knew what sort of exercise the big Klingon liked.

* * *

Worf held himself perfectly still, silencing even his breathing. He positioned the haft of the spear comfortably in his hand, and watched the small herd of deer, selecting his target. Beside him, Jondalar was also still, his spear-thrower at the ready. He had been rather surprised when the scarred, dark-skinned stranger had approached him early that morning and asked about hunting. He knew Worf was supposed to be the great hunter of Picard's tribe, but had not expected him to be so eager. Jondalar had taken great pride in demonstrating his invention of the spear-thrower, and Worf had seemed suitably impressed. However the visitor had declined the use of one, claiming it would throw him off.

"This is all I need," Worf had said with confidence, hefting a large spear, feeling its balance with an expert's honed judgement. "No dishonour to your methods. But this is what I am used to."

"Very well. You look powerful enough to throw it almost as far even without a spear-thrower," Jondalar said.

"Perhaps we shall find out in the hunt," Worf had replied as the two men headed down a lightly-worn track to a side stream.

Worf looked out at the small herd again as he judged the wind and the distance, and felt the weight of the spear again. His heart was beating, his blood burning with the fire of Kahless, the first Klingon Emperor. Hunting was in the Klingon blood, in the very marrow of Klingon bones. He had agreed at once to try for some game when he had come across the tall blond man earlier that morning. Worf had risen early, as was his custom, and Jondalar had come over to him on the riverbank as he had been performing his morning exercises, the Mok'bara, a ritualised series of movements derived from Klingon martial arts that allowed the practitioner to enter an almost trance-like state of perfect mental clarity when practised properly. It was also important in helping train the warrior's idea state of "no-mind" – when a form was so well-known by the body that the mind did not have to direct it: mind and movement were as one, instantaneous.

Jondalar had come across him while he had been doing this, and had struck up conversation. The topic had soon turned to hunting, and Jondalar had offered to take Worf looking for some game. The Klingon had eagerly accepted, and now he found himself crouching behind a low shrub, with Jondalar at his side, waiting for the right moment – the moment when a spear would fly true, striking the prey perfectly. It was a complex equation of hunter, beast, and environment that had to be constantly analysed, and a slight mistake would mean the spear flew too far, or the prey spooked and moved off, or something.

Worf shivered slightly. It was a bitingly cold morning, and not only was it an ice age, Klingons were not as cold-adapted as humans. He was glad of his furs, and the warming Starfleet uniform under it. It would not do to let his body cool down – that would slow response times, and mean the failure of the hunt. He sniffed the wind, drawing the frosty air deep into all three lungs, and then glanced briefly at his companion. It was time.

Standing together, he and Jondalar let fly at the same time. Jondalar's smaller, lighter spear, flung with the spear-thrower he had developed, hissed straight through the air, and pierced the animal's throat. Only a split-second behind it came Worf's heavier spear, burying itself between the deer's ribs. The animal died instantly, and as the rest of the small herd scattered in panic, Worf and Jondalar jogged towards the dead deer.

"A fine prize," Worf said, looking at their prey. "It died well, and for that we honour it."

"We give thanks to the Mother for her bounty and the offering of her child," Jondalar added. He thought briefly about what Ayla had said – was there really a chance that the Mother would leave them, and remove her bounty? How could they survive without hunting? He shook his head. Such things were beyond his purview: he was a simple knapper and hunter, nothing more.

"We better skin and butcher it," Jondalar said. "Be easier to carry that way.

"Do not worry about that," Worf said. He bent down and easily picked the carcass up. Slinging it about his shoulders, he trudged off towards the cave, Jondalar following, impressed with the stranger's strength. He knew the men of the Clan were strong too – Ayla had frequently told him so, often in comparison to his own. He had also met a Clan man near the end of their travels, and seen first-hand how much power lay in their compact bodies. But Worf was only a bit shorter than he was, yet seemed to posses the same brute strength and power. Did he actually have Clan in him, or were there in fact more types of humans than just his sort and the Clan? There was Hochaman, after all – his face was quite different; his eyes and nose most of all. And Ranec of the Mamutoi, with his unusually dark skin that never lost its colour, even in the middle of winter. Jondalar felt a brief flush of shame at how he had once thought of his people as the only ones worthy of being human, with Clan being seen as half-ape 'flatheads'. Picard's people would never think that, not with such diversity in even this small sample.

* * *

"Good morning Will." Picard pushed open the door and entered the small room. His nose was slightly reddened, but his eyes were sparkling. He moved to the fire and warmed his hands, rubbing the circulation back into them. "Wonderful morning! Crisp and clear, and the air is like fine champagne."

"Château Picard?" Riker quipped, referring to Picard's family trade.

"If we could bottle this, we would," the captain replied. "What's for breakfast?"

"Mr Data?"

"Porridge, sir." The android held out bowls of steaming stewed grains mixed with herbs and a little precious salt. Picard took his bowl gratefully, and sniffed at it expectantly.

"Looks good, Data," Riker said. "Reg, here's yours."

"Thank you sir," Barclay said, taking his share, and eating it somewhat awkwardly with the wooden spoon provided. There was silence for a few moments as the three men ate their breakfast, and then Picard stood up.

"Will, you're with me. There's a few things I want to discuss. When Worf gets back we can have a conference, but before that I want you to hear a few things from Ayla first."

"What sort of things?" Riker obediently followed his captain out of the small Visitors' Hearth, and they headed across the stone ground of the abri. The sun was slanting directly in, giving much-needed warmth in the bitter chill of late autumn. Riker wondered if that was the reason these people had chosen to live here, rather than in another cave. He noticed the thick stone walls of their roofless lodges, and suspected that they were built for more than just privacy: each one was carefully oriented to get as much sun as possible, with rear ones being staggered to avoid falling in shadow. That way, the sun-heated stone would slowly radiate its heat during the cool of the afternoon and evening, providing a welcome degree or two of extra warmth. He was impressed with their ingenuity, and remarked as such to Picard.

"Don't forget, Will, that these people have had a long time to get this right." Picard sighed. "We're so used to thinking in decades, or centuries, but these people, this culture, goes back essentially unchanged for millennia. Year upon year, decade upon decade, century upon century, and millennia upon millennia, these people have been slowly learning and adapting to their environment. They are one with the Earth in ways that we can never be – can never even understand. In a way, I think that is part of the trouble here."

"What trouble, Captain?"

"I'll let Ayla tell you," Picard said. "Will, the cave ceremony is in a couple of days' time, and now that we're all here, I think I should explain a few things. Ayla has been telling me some very unusual things, and I'm not sure what exactly to make of them. First of all, I would like to stress that I believe that what she has said is more than mere imagination and dreams: there are too many coincidences, too many similarities."

"What is this about?"

"Something is not quite right with time, Will," Picard said. "Something is interfering with time. Something—"

"Jean-Luc! Good morning!" Ayla had just emerged from her hearth when she saw them; Jean-Luc and the tall handsome one called Will. They greeted her warmly, and she was glad to see neither of them seemed any the worse for wear after the previous night's wine.

"Hello, Ayla. Could we talk to you?" Picard asked.

"Of course. I was just going to see to the horses."

"Horses?" Riker gasped. Ayla was pleased by his reaction: she was proud of Whinney and Racer, and enjoyed their attention. She whistled for Wolf, and he came bounding up. Wolf had been introduced to the three new-comers soon after they arrived the previous evening, and they had responded well, the tall dark one in particular greeting him like a long-lost friend.

"Ayla has tamed horses," Picard said. "You should get her to tell you how she managed it – it's a fascinating story."

"I'll bet," Riker said as the three of them headed up the riverbank. "But what was the stuff you wanted me to hear?"

Picard turned to the tall woman beside him. "Ayla, now that my companions have arrived, we might be able to shed a little more light on your visions. If you don't mind, could you tell Will the ones that have been worrying you? Don't leave out any details, especially of the future you see."

"The future?" Riker began, but Picard silenced him with a gesture. He looked at Ayla, who began to tell the familiar story. She kept an eye on Riker as she did, and saw his expression change from deep scepticism to amazement as her story unfolded.

When she had finished, Riker looked at his captain, confused.

"Was that what I thought it was? Was she seeing what she said she was?"

"That's the question, Will. What has she been seeing, and why? And how?"

"Well, all things considered," Riker said, looking around suspiciously, "this stinks of Q to me. This could be one of his little plots to test us, see how we would react. He could have set up the whole thing, from the initial chronowarp field."

"I thought of the same thing," Picard said. "But it's not really his pattern. Q's not one to hide himself – he always makes it clear we're being tested. Besides, at our last meeting he said the trial was over – that we had passed the test."

"Yes, Q would never hide away when he could be laughing in our faces," Riker said grimly. "So if not Q, then who? Or what?"

"Who is this Kyu?" Ayla asked.

"Somebody very annoying," Riker said. "Likes to play tricks on people."

"I assure you this is not a trick," Ayla said sternly.

"No, no, of course not," Riker said, quickly apologising. "I didn't mean that – it's just that Q has the ability to trick others into doing things they didn't intend to do."

"But I don't think this is one of those times," Picard said. "There's something else at work."

"What about contamination from the chronodrive particles, or a sub-space field?" Riker asked.

Ayla found herself out of her depth with the arcane words: they were presumably powerful and sacred words only known to Ones Who Served. That Picard and Riker were using them so freely around her, which Zelandonii most certainly had not, showed an immense trust and faith in her, she felt.

"Data checked her levels – high, but within normal parameters. Might want to get a decontamination unit down, but no rush. We haven't done a proper search for sub-space distortions, but it would have to be truly immense to produce these results, and any distortion that big is going to show itself in far more obvious ways."

"True enough," Riker admitted. "So what's left?"

"I really don't know," Picard admitted. "I'd like to run some more tests, but that…"

"Would not be wise," Riker finished.

"Why not?" Ayla interjected, feeling rather left out of the conversation.

"It could be risky," Picard said. "Very risky."

She could see the worry in his eyes, and knew he meant it.

"So what can you do?" she asked.

"Observe and study, for the time being," Picard said. "I shall talk it over with my companions, and perhaps we can find some way to understand."

"Thank you," Ayla said. "For all your help. Even if you cannot tell me everything, thank you for trying."

"Ah, Will, here we are," Picard said, gesturing to the two sturdy horses grazing in the long grass. A third was a bit further off, but came galloping in towards them when Ayla did a remarkably convincing imitation of a horse's whinny. "Will, meet Whinney, Racer, and the new one, Grey."

Ayla watched as the dark-haired man approached the animals, talking softly to them. Like Picard, he seemed to know how to treat them. His people clearly knew horses, knew them well – probably had tamed many as well. Ayla was under no illusion that she was the first or only person to have done so, after all. So why the astonishment at her having tamed Whinney? Did he think it beyond her abilities? Again, she felt a slight undercurrent of condescension that she couldn't quite be sure of.

* * *

"Dinner!"

"Lieutenant! What on earth is that?" Barclay jumped up as Worf tossed down the deer. He and Jondalar were grinning widely, but Barclay's face was rapidly turning pale as he looked at the carcass and the two hunters.

"Fresh meat!" Worf exclaimed. "You want to help skin it?" he added mischievously, looking at Barclay and holding out the stone knife Jondalar had given him. He laughed as Barclay's face changed from white to green, and turned to his hunting companion. "Where should we butcher the animal?"

"This way," Jondalar said, gesturing. Worf picked the deer up again, and followed him.

"I would like to join you," Data said suddenly. Worf looked at him, surprised, then grunted assent. "Thank you. I have never actually seen a live dissection," the android said. "This should prove most interesting. Are you sure you don't want to come too, Lieutenant?"

"Quite sure, thank you," Barclay said, waving Data off feebly. He took a large gulp of cold tea to rinse out the bile in his throat, and swallowed. That was dinner? He shivered. Would he be able to eat any, knowing where it came from, and how it got here?

His leather boots crunching on the gravel of the riverbank, Worf wondered about Barclay's reaction. It was hard to see him and Jondalar as both human. Had technology and civilisation really wrought such vast changes? Worf knew little of human history: he had been taught in school about the various wars of human history, and he knew that even now they were fine and skilled warriors, and could be dangerous opponents. But even among their greatest warriors there seemed to be lacking the Klingon blood-lust, the raw, visceral thrill of combat, of the hunt. Modern humans were more like Vulcans, Worf thought. Hardly surprising, after all – considering the huge influence of the Vulcan people on human civilisation after First Contact. Worf had not realised however just how large that influence was, or how different humans were before it. During the hunt, he had been able to smell Jondalar's excitement, taste it in the air. It was an almost Klingon-like passion.

Such a waste, he thought as he set the animal down and he and Jondalar began slicing its belly open, taking care not to break the intestines lest foul-smelling half-digested wastes taint the meat. They no longer know what it means to be alive, to be connected with their environment. The K'aaji, the Warrior Path, was more than just the brutal fighting and strict honour code that most humans saw it as. It was based on a deep, primeval connection to life itself, in all its frail and tender beauty. These humans understood that, Worf knew. He would have much to teach the others of the Enterprise about their ancestors when he returned.

* * *

"Mammoths? Are you sure?" Joharran asked excitedly.

"That's what Jean-Luc said he Saw," Jondalar said. He and Worf had finished butchering the deer, and it was now lying wrapped in grasses in a cool part of the cave, ready for cooking.

His brother knitted his brows as he thought. It was a fantastic opportunity, but only if the herd came close enough that they could get there in a day. Late autumn was a busy time as all spare hands were needed to gather as many supplies from the dwindling harvest before the winter snows buried everything. A multi-day camp was simply not practical, not with mammoths, where the chances of actually bringing down one of the huge beasts was not high enough to make it a good gamble.

"Send out two scouts, in the direction Picard said," he decided. "If they are not back by tonight with positive news, we will have to let the herd go by."

"I'll get our best runners," Joharran said. "And we should alert the other caves as well."

"I'll get onto that right away," Jondalar said. "This could be one of the best hunts of the year, thanks to the strangers."

"Hopefully it will counteract the rumours of the Mother removing her bounty," Joharran said. "If it succeeds," he added darkly.

* * *

**NOTES**

Many thanks to AvidReaderAlso for not one but two generous reviews. Much appreciated, as are those by everyone else. Even those I cannot reply directly to. I am not really sure how people are finding this, or what drives you to click on this of all the different crossovers, but I do like to think this is more meaningful than a crossover between, say, TNG and Alvin and the Chipmunks (perhaps as that particular story is written by someone who is functionally illiterate).

Anyway, I don't really have any facts to note in this chapter. It's a little long, but doesn't have a natural break in the middle. It's a little talky, but then it's TNG with Picard, who is nothing if not fond of talking.

For non-Trekkies like darth Queidus, "Q" is an essentially omnipotent being from a dimension (?) called the Q Continuum (the Qontinuum) who acts as both mentor and judge and prankster to Picard. While dangerous, he is not evil, and his tricks generally have a deeper meaning behind them. Other Trek stuff I have explained in the text I think.


	17. The Minds of the Mog-Urs

No idea why the first time I posted this it glitched. I suspect because I copy-pasted the chapter title in as well, though last time I did that this didn't happen. Anyway, my apologies for not checking - I posted it last thing before bed, and never thought to check it had come across safely. I hope my readers will check back again.  
Last Time on Star Trek: Earth's Children: Worf has distinguished himself as a hunter, and Picard has been told there are mammoths approaching - leading Ayla to consider his abilities as a Seer almost superhuman.

* * *

**17\. The Minds of the Mog-Urs**

Riker looked at Picard, one eyebrow raised.

"I know it sounds incredible, Will, but she cannot have made this up," Picard said.

"No, I agree – how can she know what – what she has seen," Riker finished, acutely aware of the tall beautiful blonde next to him. He looked at her again, wondering how she knew – was she perhaps really a Q? Like Amanda Rogers, the precocious young intern who turned out to be a Q raised as a human, something even she herself had not known. Could Ayla be another?

"Ayla, has anything else unusual happened that you cannot explain?" Riker asked.

"What do you mean?"

Riker looked at Picard, seeking help and assurance. The captain just nodded. He understood what Riker was thinking – it was something he had wondered himself.

"Anything…like, have you ever made something happen. Something that you wanted to happen, and it did."

"I wanted Jondalar to come, when I was alone in my valley," Ayla said. "And he came. I wanted to meet the Others, and I did."

"No, I mean things that are not possible," Riker said.

"How can things that are not possible happen?" Ayla asked, confused. What in the name of the Mother did he mean? It was like asking for a river to flow upstream!

"Like…like making stones float in the air, or making things fly."

Ayla shook her head in evident confusion. Riker looked at Picard, who gave a Gallic shrug.

"I don't think she's like Amanda," he said.

Riker nodded. "No. Pity – that would have answered a lot of questions," the commander said.

"Indeed. However we still have to consider what we know, and I want to get everyone's opinion on that as soon as possible. Have them assemble in the Visitor's Hearth in an hour," Picard said.

"What are you going to do in the meantime, Captain?" Riker asked, wondering why the delay.

"Go for another ride," Picard said, motioning to the horse beside him. "That is, unless Ayla has any objections."

"You should ask Racer, since he will be carrying you, not I," Ayla said with a laugh.

* * *

"Listen, Ralamar. Can you hear it?"

"Yes. It looks as if the stranger was right."

"We need to confirm the location." The speaker stood up from where he had been bent, ear to the ground, and looked around.

"Over that way, I think."

"I agree, Dalano." Ralamar stood on tiptoes once more, trying to get any extra distance, but the low rises hid his vision. He and Dalano had been jogging since Joharran sent them that morning, and it was now nearly noon. His face was damp with sweat, which he wiped with his hand off to avoid it chilling him too much. They had been heading in the direction Joharran had told them, stopping every so often to put their ears to the ground and listen: a herd of mammoths could be heard from many paces distance indeed, long before they were seen. They did not need stealth or silence; the great animals feared few predators: even a cave lion or dirk-toothed tiger was no match for a bull in his prime. In fact the only animal that could take down a full-grown mammoth was that insignificantly small yet infuriatingly dangerous one known as Man.

The two trackers loped off over the grasslands, covering the ground with an easy swinging stride. Ralamar pointed to a solitary tree on a nearby ridge, and the two of them veered off and headed for it. Trees made excellent lookout platforms, so long as they could be climbed. This one was well-supplied with branches, and in a few moments the two men were perched in its upper reaches, scanning the horizon.

"That way," Dalano said, pointing. Ralamar looked in the direction of his finger. A long wide brown trail of churned earth showed where the herd had moved, feasting as they went.

The two men scrambled down from the tree and jogged over to the trail. Their expert eyes quickly analysed it, determining the direction of movement and size from the number of footprints and the way in which they overlapped.

"A large herd," Ralamar said. "Heading south. This is a bounty indeed."

"The Mother is generous," Dalano agreed. "I am glad the rumours are not true," he added.

"We have yet to kill one," Ralamar reminded him. "And you shouldn't put so much stock in rumours anyway. Where did you hear this one?" he said as the two of them headed back to the Ninth Cave, following the herd's trail.

"My mate heard it from Marona," Dalano said.

"Marona has been spending some time with the newcomers," Ralamar admitted. "Do you think it is possible – could Ayla be a danger to us?"

"I do not think so," Dalano said. "She healed my foot when I tripped and fell in the rabbit hole."

"Yes, your ankle was badly damaged," Ralamar said. "And now look at you – as fast as ever."

"Ayla has much skill, and much to share with us. She is blessed by the Mother, not cursed," Dalano said.

"I hope you are right, Dalano," his companion said as they jogged along the dusty path. "I really do."

* * *

"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Number One," Picard said, ducking under the lintel some time later.

"Did you enjoy your ride, Captain?" Data asked.

"Most pleasant, thank you," Picard replied, sitting down on a convenient sleeping pad. "Will, the meeting's all yours."

"Thank you, Captain." Riker sat down on the furs, next to Picard, and faced the others. "Okay, now that we are all here, I want to try and make sense of this. You've heard what Data and I have said, so let me know your views."

"One question before we begin, Commander."

"Yes, Worf?"

"Why is Ayla herself not here? We cannot discuss this matter without her input."

"Unfortunately, we won't be able to contain the discussion within the cultural boundaries of the Palaeolithic," Picard said. "We need to be free to discuss the greater implications without worrying about how these people might take it."

"I understand," Worf said, nodding briefly.

"Reg, you and Mr Data have seen the tricorder readings, have you not? What do you make of them?"

"Well, Commander," Barclay said, his attitude changing as the field of expertise shifted into areas he was more comfortable with. "There are chronometric particles, as expected, and as Commander Data discovered, they are concentrated on Ayla. She did go near the shuttle, and that is presumably where she was contaminated. However chronometric particles do not always decay in a temporally linear fashion, so there exists the possibility that she could have been contaminated elsewhere."

"How?" Riker asked.

"One suggestion is that she has been taken into the future by some other means," Barclay said. "It is not impossible that another group has visited, after all. What she describes sounds very much like imperfectly-erased memory engrams, after all."

"Interesting," Riker mused. "It certainly fits in. Can you tell when?"

"Unfortunately not," Barclay said. "Since chronometric particles do not decay linearly, it is hard to work out when exactly a contamination took place. The tricorder is not up to it."

"We could send the results to the Enterprise computer," Data added. "My own positronic net could possibly do it, but it would require many hours of processing time, which I could not do and still interact with you."

"It could be done at night," Riker suggested. "When we are asleep, and you could lie – or stand – there and process the data."

"While I appreciate your faith in my abilities, sir, it would be faster to use the Enterprise," Data said.

Picard nodded. "Make it so."

Barclay tapped his temple where the subcutaneal transmitter was secreted.

"Enterprise here," he heard, transmitted directly to his auditory canal.

"This is Lieutenant Barclay," he said. "I'm sending up some tricorder data on chronometric particles. I need a reverse decay track to determine original point of contact. The subject is a human female."

"I'll get the computers on it immediately, sir. You may send the information now."

Barclay opened the tricorder and tapped a few controls. "Got it?"

"Data received sir. We should have an answer in a few hours. Enterprise out."

"All done, Mr Barclay?" Picard asked as Barclay folded the tricorder and put it away.

"Yes captain. We should know in about three or four hours."

"Good. In the meantime, let's hear any other theories. Worf?"

"Could this be an attempt at subverting human development?" the big Klingon asked. "Some plot to derail human history?"

"Who by, how, and why, though?" Riker asked. "We have no evidence for that at all."

"Except she does know the future. Someone must have shown it to her," Worf responded.

"I would tend to agree, but if you're going to interfere with human history, why go so far back? Who has the power to do that, anyway?"

"The Borg have shown they have great mastery over chronometric time corridors," Data put in. "It is likely that it is technically possible for them to have done it."

"They could also have been responsible for the chrono-distortion that pulled your shuttle off in the first place," Worf added.

"It's a possibility," Picard admitted slowly. The Borg? Could they be involved? He desperately hoped not: Picard loathed the Borg, the cybernetic humanoids who roamed the galaxy in their vast cubical ships looking for more and more technology to assimilate. They had nearly succeeded in assimilating him, and he was still plagued by occasional nightmares about his experiences with them. No, the Borg would surely not be so determined to assimilate humans after their defeat at Wolf 359 that they would go back in time to try when they were weaker, surely? But could he be sure?

"Once we know when she was exposed to the chronometric particles, we can have a better idea of what the Borg were doing. That is, if they were involved," Barclay was saying. "Which I, er, rather doubt."

"Oh? Why is that?" Riker queried.

"It, uh, doesn't seem to make sense, commander," Barclay said, suddenly feeling rather more nervous. "Why…why would the Borg kidnap someone from the Ice Age and show her the future? What possible change could one person make so far back in back?"

"She could suggest various inventions," Worf said. "If Ayla has been exposed to the future, she will know things she shouldn't – even a simple change could have an exponential effect given thousands of years."

"The Butterfly Effect," Picard muttered. "Surely not…."

"Captain?"

"An early chaos theory analogy," Picard explained. "It was used to illustrate chaos theory as applied to weather patterns – to suggest that if a butterfly in Beijing were to flap its wings, a hurricane would strike Brazil, or something similar."

"Precisely," Data interjected. "In essence, it depends on sensitive dependence on initial conditions: if for example you take two trajectories for the same period of time in the Lorenz attractor starting at two initial points that differ only by 10-5 in the x-coordinate, then initially, the two trajectories seem coincident, as indicated by the small difference between the z coordinate of the first and second trajectories, but for example by t 23 the difference would be as large as the value of the trajectory, and the final position of the points would indicate that the two trajectories are no longer coincident at t=30."

Worf looked at the android strangely. "Is that so…?"

"Certainly," Data said brightly. "However I am not sure we need to worry about this: the Novikov self-consistency principle asserts that if an event exists that would give rise to a paradox, or to any change to the past whatsoever, then the probability of that event is zero. Thus since we are here, and any change in the timeline that remotely seriously affected the future would prevent us from being here, then it is impossible for any event to happen that would prevent us from being here. Ergo, nothing Ayla can do or say will affect the future, nor could it from the moment the Captain and I arrived."

"What would we do without you, Mr Data…" Picard murmured.

"I presume you would request another Second Officer from Starfleet personnel," Data replied.

A light scratch on the rawhide door panel caused them to break off.

"Come," Picard said.

The door was pushed open, and Ayla stepped in. She looked around at the assembled Starfleet officers, and hesitated.

"Come in, please," Picard said, moving over to allow her to sit.

"Thank you," Ayla said, picking her way past everybody in the rather cramped confines of the hearth. It was not as bad the Mamutoi earthlodge sometimes got, however: she could at least still see the floor. She sat down and looked around at them, hope and worry on her face.

"We were just discussing your visions," Picard said.

"Have you understood why I am having them?" Ayla asked hopefully.

"Not yet," Picard said. "We have a few good ideas however, and will test them out. Is there anything more about your visions that you can tell us? Any more details about the future you have seen in them?"

Ayla shook her head. "I have told you everything about them," she said.

"Any other visions? I know you told us about the one you had of the flood, but have you ever had any other premonitions of the future?"

"Not apart from the ones of this cave," Ayla said.

"Ah yes. The falling rock." Picard glanced upwards automatically, even though all he could see was the rock ceiling of the abri. "Could you tell my companions, who have not yet heard it?"

"Of course," Ayla said. "When I lived with the Clan, I went with them to what we call a Clan Gathering. Iza, my mother, was sick – she died just after we returned," Ayla said, closing her eyes at the painful memory of seeing the only mother she had ever known quiet and cold in the earth, surrounded by the flowers and herbs she had used in life. Ayla's eyes started to water, but she blinked back her tears. "Because Iza was not able to go, I had to prepare the special drink for the mog-urs, for their ceremony. But I made too much, or something, and because Iza had told me it was the most sacred drink there was, I didn't dare spill it out onto the ground. So I drank the rest of it – that was against all Clan tradition. I have hazy memories of following the mog-urs back into the cave. They were eating the brains of the young man who had died that day."

"The brains?!" Barclay exclaimed, his face green. Riker glared at him and he shut up.

"Please continue, Ayla," the commander said.

"It was the most sacred ceremony of all the mog-urs, when they connected their minds together, and went on a voyage."

"Connected their minds together?" Worf said, astonished. "How?"

"I do not know how," Ayla said, shaking her head. "Creb was directing it, with his great and powerful brain. I do not know how, but somehow my mind joined with theirs. I went back with them, back to the very beginning of all things, and then as we came back to the present, I came to this place. I know it was this place: I recognised the Falling Stone, the great rock above the abri. And somehow I knew that the Clan had lived here for generations, long before the Others arrived. Somehow I knew that I would come here too, to this place that was home to both Clan and Others." She trailed off, lost in memory. "I've been different since then," she added. "My dreams feel different, and sometimes I feel strange, as though I go away someplace else."

"How could she see this place?" Worf demanded.

Picard sat back, his expression one of deep concern. While he had heard Ayla briefly mention the vision of the Falling Stone, he had not heard the full story before, and he knew there was something there that was important, something she had said that might be a clue.

"I know that many peoples use psychotropic drugs to induce hallucinations," Riker said quietly. "But the hallucinations have to be something they know – that they have seen. How can Ayla have had a vision of somewhere she had never been, thousands of kilometres from her home?"

"I don't know, Will," Picard said slowly. "And there's something else that bothers me, too. Ayla, what did you mean when you said you went back to the beginnings?"

"I followed the minds of the mog-urs back," Ayla explained. "Back to the very beginnings of everything."

"Could you explain?" Picard asked, his brow still furrowed with thought.

"I'm not sure," Ayla said. "It was like I was and was not there, was and was not part of it. I remember warm salty water, an eternity spend under it, but growing and changing form, and then I was on land, on four legs then two, crawling then standing upright, and I could feel Creb there with me, but then we began to drift apart, Creb and I, and then I saw the falling rock, and felt great and terrible loss and sadness. And then I saw the things which you say were the future, the strange smooth shapes and flying creatures and the bright lights."

"What do you make of that, Mr Data?" Picard asked slowly.

"It is impossible to be certain, sir," the android said. "It could perhaps be some memories of the womb, and of birth."

"No, it was not that," Ayla said. "I don't know how, but I know it was not that. It was something that happened a long time ago, and not to me, but to everyone – I was following the mog-urs, seeing what they saw – until the cave, that is."

"In some respects it resembles theories of genetic memories," Data said. "However there is no theoretical support for genetic memory whatsoever," he added.

"No, there isn't," Picard agreed. He looked at Ayla, wondering. "Unless…unless you accept the ideas that eukaryotic DNA can transmit such memories."

"But that research was discredited by Dr Jerome Germaine in—"

"Not now, Data," Picard interjected, cutting his crew member off before he could say anything further. "Maybe it is, maybe there is another reason, maybe it's nothing at all. But given that we know she has seen the future, seeing the past isn't too much of a stretch either. The only question is, how?"

"I cannot say, captain," Data said.

"We need the results from, uh…" Riker jerked his head up imperceptibly. Picard nodded. The Enterprise should be crunching the data in its massive computers by now, and even those would take quite a few hours.

"Yes, we can't sit here and speculate all day. When we have some hard data, then we can suggest some working hypotheses to investigate. All right, dismissed."

* * *

"How's that weather front, Ensign?"

The red-shirted young man at the Ops position checked his readouts again, "Moving slowly north-by-north-east now, Commander. Should reach the away team in about ten-point-eight hours."

"Good," La Forge said. "I'll be down in Engineering working on those chrono-particle decay problems with Dr Brahms. You have the bridge."

"Aye sir," the ensign said, awed at the honour. Not that there was much to do: they were in a stable geosynchronous orbit above France, in a time long before Cardassians or Klingons or Romulans had developed space travel. And the Borg were still on the other side of the galaxy. A pity, he thought – it would be great opportunity to attack them while they were still weak; a pre-emptive strike to save millions. He idly played with the controls, zooming the viewscreen in on the location of the Away Team. He could see a wide river winding lazily through the wooded valley, which stood out dark green against the more treeless plains of the surrounding area. The image was crystal-clear, and he was even able to make out individual people moving about.

"This must be fascinating for you," the Benzite ensign in the Conn position remarked. "Those could be your ancestors, after all."

"Not my ancestors. They came from Japan," the ensign said.

The Benzite blinked. "But couldn't they have migrated over?"

"No. My people are different. They look different," Ensign Koizumi explained. "Let me show you." He zoomed in still further, so faces were visible. The ship's computer smoothly switched into auto-detail mode to compensate for the atmospheric distortions, and Koizumi focused on one young woman. The Benzite looked at the image on the screen, and then at the young man beside him.

"How are they different?" he asked with evident confusion.

"On Earth we have three or four different races of humans," Koizumi explained. "Each one looks a little bit different. For example, look at her nose, and look at mine. Do you see?"

"Ah…I think her bridge is a bit higher than yours," the Benzite said.

"That's right, Mendock," Koizumi said, leaning back.

The Benzite looked at the screen again, and then at his companion. "You created an entirely different racial category based just on your noses?" he asked in surprise.

"Well, not just on the noses," Koizumi said. "There are other facial features as well."

"Seems like a pretty minor thing to me," Mendock commented. "After all, to we Benzites, all you humans look alike. In fact if it wasn't for hairstyle and those bumps on the chest - the mammary organs, if I remember rightly - we'd have difficulty in telling male from female," he confided.

"Not a mistake I ever make," Koizumi laughed. He looked at the woman on the screen again. She was definitely rather attractive, he decided. Long light-brown hair, and a good figure. He couldn't tell much at the limits of resolution, but he liked what he saw.

"Isn't that Commander Data with her?" Mendock suddenly asked.

"Huh? Where? Oh yes, so it is," Koizumi said. "Wonder what he's doing?"

"I think he is talking to that woman. It is a woman, isn't it? You said 'her' nose, didn't you?"

"Yeah, she's female, believe me," the human ensign said with a trace of longing. "Wish I was part of the away team."

"Perhaps you will get your wish one day, my friend," Mendock said with the Benzite phlegmatic attitude towards the future.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Marona," Data said.

"Hello Data," Marona said. She looked around somewhat nervously. "I heard several of your people had joined you."

"That is correct," Data replied. "They arrived last evening."

"There was no welcoming feast," Marona said. "You must think us rude."

"That was at the captain's suggestion," Data said. "He did not want to trouble you more than he had to."

"Why have they come?" Marona blurted out, no longer able to keep silent. "Is it something to do with those visions about the Mother leaving us?"

"What makes you say that?" Data asked, curious.

"They are all followers of Jean-Luc Picard, the man you call 'Captain', are they not?"

"They are," Data acknowledged. "Why should this worry you?"

"Why do you need so many of Those Who Serve to come here, now?"

Data looked at her for an eternity while his positronic net calculated what she might mean. Three seconds after she had spoken, he was able to reply. "Coincidence."

"Coincidence? There is no such thing," Marona said. "No, you're hiding something from me. Something dangerous. I know it."

"I assure you, what you think you know is mistaken," Data said.

"Oh?"

"Certainly. Why would you think otherwise?"

"Why? Isn't it obvious?"

"No. After all, Ayla has been having these visions for some time before we arrived, has she not?"

"Well, yes," Marona admitted. "But I heard she's been having them more often lately."

"There is nothing to worry about," Data said. "These visions do not mean that your gods will abandon you."

"You probably wouldn't tell me even if they did," Marona said, annoyed.

"I do not lie," Data said. "I am not capable of it."

"Like Ayla?" Marona's lip curled.

"I am not aware of her ability to lie," Data said calmly.

"She's either an idiot or naïve," Marona said bitterly, knowing Ayla was certainly no idiot. "She seems to be able to tell when others are lying as well," she added from bitter experience.

"That is a useful ability," Data said.

"She certainly makes use of it," Marona scowled.

Data looked at her, measuring and analysing her facial expressions and voice tone. Something was not quite right. He took a second to run a facial diagnostic sub-routine.

"Do you…dislike Ayla?" he asked.

"What do you think?" Marona retorted.

"I am not certain," Data admitted. "However my calculations, based on your facial and vocal analysis, suggest a sixty-eight percent probability that you are not friends with her."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Marona asked, genuinely confused. "What is a percent?"

"It refers to probability," Data explained. "It means I think you do not like her."

"Then why not say that?"

"I did," Data said.

Marona bit off an acerbic reply, and decided to change the subject.

"I heard rumours that some mammoths are approaching," she said. "Is that true?"

"It is likely," Data said.

Marona's heart skipped a beat. "They say that Jean-Luc was able to See them without the use of herbs or sacred drinks," she said.

"That is essentially true," Data admitted. "He did not use any herbal stimulants."

"How powerful is he?" Marona asked. More powerful than Zelandoni? she wondered. Almost certainly. Would this be a good thing or a bad thing for her?

"I do not understand your question," Data was saying.

"How…how good is he?" she asked. "How well does he know his job?"

"He is the best at his job that I have ever known or heard of," Data said.

Marona raised an eyebrow, pondering. So the mammoths vision could be true. If so, it would boost the newcomers' standing with the Ninth Cave, and reduce Zelandoni's somewhat, since she had not Seen them. But how much? That would depend on how well the hunt went, she realised. If they came back empty-handed, then there would no real change. If there was an injury, or even worse, death, then the newcomers would be seen as having brought bad luck. And Ayla's reputation would suffer as well, Marona realised. The rumours about her bringing bad luck and misfortune would gather strength, and perhaps even call for her to take her child and leave – but would Jondalar go, or would his mother and brother keep him in the Ninth Cave? If so, then Marona realised that she would have another chance, another shot at the top seat. If Ayla were to be exiled alone, that is.

Or if the hunt ended in tragedy….

"Thank you, Data," she said, giving him a warm smile. "You've been most helpful."

.

* * *

**Notes**

Incidentally, the Treknobabble is based on real tech: the chaos theory nonsense was lifted from Wikipedia, and the Novikov self-consistency principle is a real concept as well. Don't know how accurate it is yet though - haven't yet done a lot of time-travelling. And no, I don't understand it either.

For those whose EC knowledge is rusty, the mog-urs are the Wise Men (shamans, witch doctors) of the Neanderthal tribes in Clan of the Cave Bear. Their sacred ceremony is essentially as described here, as are the images and memories and visions Ayla saw in it.

Benzites are an alien species from TNG. One of the more alien-looking ones. Benzites are sincere, eager, polite, and efficient. Mendock's comments about how all humans look alike may be seen as a reflection of how Benzites were known to develop from a series of large geostructures; those from the same geostructure naturally looked identical. Benzites within these geostructures had the inherent ability to distinguish each other, all of whom would otherwise appear identical to outsiders. Memory Alpha is THE site for Trek facts.

Anyway, events are slowly moving along, theories are being discussed, and anything could be possible now. Hopefully not something you've already come up with six chapters ago and when I give the answer you say 'oh that was obvious from the start'...

Still to come, hopefully pretty soon, is the mammoth hunt scene, for which I shall need to do a lot of plagiarism-I-mean-research from _The Mammoth Hunters_, and the cave ceremony scene, and then... other scenes.

Sorry about all the weird glitching with this chapter. Hopefully this time it'll work out... Sometimes FF net really is a bit gibbled.


	18. Sons of Two Worlds

**18\. Sons of Two Worlds**

NB: If you skipped the last chapter thinking I gibbled the uploading, it's fixed now. Sorry 'bout that….

* * *

"Why on Earth did I ever let Starfleet talk me into taking this assignment," Brahms muttered as she punched numbers into the PADD she was holding. "Trying to solve quintic equations in my head would be easier than this."

"I know, Leah," La Forge said. He too was busy inputting numbers, checking readouts, and collating results. "But we need to find out where the time breach occurred – it could help us find out what happened to the captain, for one thing."

"I know why we're doing it," Brahms said crossly, rubbing her temple. "I just don't like doing it, that's all."

"Well, you did volunteer," La Forge noted.

"Don't remind me," she retorted. "I was trying to be helpful."

"And don't think we don't appreciate it, Leah," La Forge said. "Seriously, you've been a great help. I only wish there was some way I could make it up to you."

"I'll let you know when I think of something," Brahms replied seriously, then flashed a quick grin at La Forge. "Perhaps a weekend on the pleasure planet Risa?"

"Risa? Whoa," La Forge exclaimed, almost dropping his own PADD. "What about your husband?"

Brahms turned to look at him, her eyes widening. "You really need to keep better tabs on your personnel files," she said quietly. "Last time we met you didn't know I was married; this time you don't know I'm divorced."

"I'm sorry," La Forge said automatically.

"Don't be," Brahms said. "It was mutual, and amicable. It was just that our jobs kept us apart too much. I need someone who is there for me," she added, looking around at the Enterprise's engine room, at the powerful machinery that drove the ship across the light years on its long voyages of exploration and discovery. "I don't want a long-distance relationship…"

La Forge nodded. He understood. Sighing, he turned back to his numbers.

* * *

"Right, come on Reg," Riker said, standing up. "If we're going to be guests of these people, we should at least help them out."

"Uh, what do you mean, sir?" Barclay said nervously.

"These people are hunter-gatherers. Worf has been hunting, so the least we can do is some gathering."

"Gathering? I suppose I could do that," Barclay said. "I mean, that is, I would be capable of doing that."

"Don't worry, Reg. I'm not expecting you to hunt a sabre-toothed tiger the day you get here," Riker said. "We'll start small. Gathering wild plants and the like."

"What shall we gather, Commander?" Barclay asked as they headed out.

Riker stopped, his face a blank mask. It was several seconds before he spoke.

"You know, I have no idea," he admitted. "We should have brought Keiko O'Brien with us. I know nothing about botany."

"But Professor O'Brien has left Enterprise – she's on Deep Space Nine with the Chief now," Barclay pointed out.

"I know that, Reg," Riker said. "I was just – never mind. Okay then, so gathering plants is out. I don't want to ask Ayla or anyone – we'd come across as even more incompetent than we already are."

"So what are we going to do?"

Riker looked around at the narrow valley, the steep walls and the sparkling waters of the river flowing through it.

"Ever been fishing, Lieutenant?" he asked.

Barclay shook his head.

"In that case, Reg, let me show you what we still do for fun in Alaska."

Riker looked around, and headed to a woman who was hanging freshly-caught fish on a drying frame. The fish had been neatly gutted, then split open along the belly before being spread open with thin wooden spikes. A fire was burning underneath to keep the insects away, and to help preserve the meat. As they approached, the woman sat back, and they could see who it was.

"Marthona," Riker greeted her. "I did not think the mother of the leader would be doing such menial labour."

"Will, Reg, good to see you," Marthona replied. "I do not understand you – what is 'menial labour'? Does not everyone in your cave work?"

"Uh, yes," Riker said, annoyed at having make yet another faux-pas. "But we have somewhat more rigid divisions of labour than you do, I think. Leaders do one thing, shamans another, hunters hunt, gatherers gather."

"It sounds very much like the society of the – of the people who raised Ayla," Marthona commented neutrally. "She has told me about them; about how you can only do the job you were born to do. I think you will find our ways much more efficient."

"Well, we can do other jobs, if we need to," Riker hurried to say. "In fact, that's why we're here. We were thinking of seeing if we couldn't help catch a few fish."

"You sure you can manage it?" Marthona asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Where I grew up, there were many rivers," Riker said. "Salmon from my home is famous for its richness and flavour."

"Well then, don't let me stop you," Marthona said. "You'll find hooks and lines in Down River. I suggest you head to one of the side rivers. The Wood River is just upstream, where the horses are."

"I remember," Riker said. "Come on, Reg."

* * *

The two men walked together up the bank of the Vezere. The river, wide and placid, flowed smoothly in its gentle banks, but every so often a large boulder in the stream or along the side told of its power when in flood. On the other side of the river and the tall steep cliff walls where the Ninth Cave made its home was a wide apron, mostly grassed, and they could see people working there and children playing. Barclay stopped to look at one young girl, armed with a slingshot, who was practising near the edge of the river. She had set up wooden targets on the top of stones, and as Barclay watched, she whirled the thin leather sling around her head and let fly. One of the targets fell to the ground with a loud clatter, but there was another noise immediately after it, of stone hitting rock. Barclay realised she had fired two stones in quick succession. It was an impressive trick, and he wondered how long it had taken her to master it.

"Come on Reg," Riker said, turning to face his companion. "Not much point in fishing here – too many people around."

"Yes sir," Barclay said, hurrying after his commander.

A few minutes later they found themselves on the banks of a narrow stream, a couple of hundred metres up from the where the horses were grazing. Riker looked around, selecting a spot.

"Over here," he said, pointing. "We don't have any rods, so fly-casting is out of the question. We'll just have to throw them in."

"What about bait, sir?"

"Should be some earthworms around here," Riker said. "Start digging, Lieutenant."

"Uh…worms?" Barclay turned a delicate shade of chartreuse.

"Or we could use this," Riker said grinning, fishing out a small leather bundle. He had rather enjoyed Barclay's reaction, but didn't want to push him too far just yet. Plenty of time for that.

"What is that, sir?"

"Offal from the deer Worf and Jondalar killed," Riker said. "Just stick some small bits on the hooks. That's the way. Now toss the hook lightly – lightly! – into the stream."

"Like this?"

"Not bad, Reg. Only next time, try to avoid the trees."

"Sorry sir. I'll try again."

"That's the spirit. Okay, you got it this time. Now we just have to wait."

"How long sir?"

"Well, that's the thing. You can't time this sort of thing. It's not a physics equation. Fishing is an art, Reg. And besides, where would the fun be if you knew exactly when the fish would bite? We shall sit here near the bank, and watch our lines patiently, enjoying the fresh air and quietness."

"It is quiet," Barclay admitted, looking around. There was a gentle breeze that made a soft rustling in the leaves, most of which were orange and yellow by now. The stream burbled and chattered to itself as it ran over its rocky bed towards its big brother, and off in the distance there was a low humming from a large dragonfly as it bobbed about near the water surface, on its own little fishing expedition. The air was fresh and cool, and he could smell various scents that he couldn't place. It was remarkably peaceful, and he felt the same kind of relaxation that he used to feel in the holosuites, the feeling of safety and security, of tranquillity and peace. It was very nice indeed….

Then he felt a tug on his line. "Commander!"

"What is it, Reg?"

"I think I have a bite! Something grabbed the hook!"

"Excellent, Reg. Don't pull it in yet – let the fish tire itself out first."

"Yes sir." Barclay held the line carefully, trying to resist the temptation to yank it to the banks. Whatever had hold of the hook, it was big: he felt the line slipping between his fingers.

"Wrap it around your wrist," Riker advised.

"What if it pulls me into the river?" Barclay asked nervously.

"Make sure it doesn't," Riker said unhelpfully. "Or aren't you a match for a little tiny salmon?"

"Yes sir," Barclay said, twisting his right wrist around the line, and bracing his feet on some stones. Every time the line slackened, he pulled it in a bit more. Soon he could see something silver under the water.

"Nearly there, Reg," Riker encouraged him. "A few more pulls, and – there!"

Barclay gave one final tug on the line, and then fell backwards as a large wet object landed in his lap.

"Now what?" he shouted as the fish writhed and leapt on his lap.

"Take this," Riker said, handing him a stout length of driftwood.

"What do I do with this?"

"Hit it!"

"Hit the fish? I can't!"

"Of course you can! One good blow on the head. Harder, Reg!"

"Ow!"

"What happened?"

"I hit my knee instead!"

"Well, don't stop! Just aim better!"

Barclay closed his eyes and swung the wood again. He heard a sickening smack, and the fish lay still. Gingerly, he opened his eyes and looked at his first catch. A large fish of some sort lay motionless on his lap, the mouth slowly opening and shutting. The hook was still embedded in his jaw, from which a thin trail of red blood was seeping.

"I think I'm going to be sick," he said, and gulped.

"Well done, Reg," Riker said. "You just caught our breakfast for tomorrow. Now we need to gut it," he added, holding out a thin flint knife.

"Gut it?" Barclay asked, his face pale.

"Here. Take this knife, slice open its stomach, and remove the internal organs."

Barclay looked at the knife, the fish, and gulped again, his throat full of bile.

"Do I have to?" he asked meekly.

"Of course. This is how humans have caught fish for millennia. Even when we were starting to explore space, there were still people who did this for a living."

"Didn't they ban fishing in the twenty-first century?" Barclay asked, trying to delay the unpleasant task.

"Only temporarily," Riker said. "After tuna became extinct through over-fishing, there was a worldwide ban on all non-farmed commercial fishing operations."

"When did that end?"

"When you finish gutting the fish," Riker said. "Snap to it, Lieutenant!"

Barclay took the knife, and pushed the fish onto a flat stone. He knelt in front of it, his hands shaking. Once or twice he prodded the fish with the blade, but made no move to slice it open.

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't do this," he said eventually.

Riker looked at him, his face thoughtful. "Perhaps it was a bit much to ask," he admitted. "I remember the first time my father got me to gut a fish, back home in Alaska. I think I threw a tantrum, come to think of it. So you're doing better than I was, at least. Mind you, I was six at the time."

Riker moved over to Barclay, taking the knife from the engineer. With a few swift strokes, he eviscerated the salmon, removing its intestines, heart, and other organs.

"Look, Reg!" he called, holding up an amorphous mass covered in blood. "Roe!"

Barclay's face turned green, and he hurried towards the river, his hands over his mouth.

* * *

"How many did you see?"

"Three bulls, four or five matriarchs, and about seven younger ones," Dalano replied.

"How close will they pass?" Joharran asked. Beside him, Marthona nodded. That was the crucial information – they only needed one kill, but if it was too far, then it would be too hard to carry the meat and hides back.

"Within half a day's walk," Dalano said.

"Excellent," Zelandoni said calmly. "I will claim the tusks of the bull."

"What for?" Joharran asked.

"They shall be placed at the entrance to my hearth," Zelandoni said. "As First, it is fitting that my hearth be marked off."

"Shouldn't the hearth of the leader be the one marked off?" Ralamar asked.

Zelandoni fixed him with a stare. "Not with mammoth tusks. It would not be appropriate."

"Yes, Zelandoni," Ralamar said, not daring to meet the eyes of the powerful shamaness.

"We leave first thing in the morning," Joharran said, not interested in mammoth tusks. "Tell the others."

"What about the storm?" Marthona asked, a worried look on her face.

Joharran looked at Zelandoni questioningly.

"The Mother has offered us these mammoth; she will not go back in her word. It will hit hard and pass over fast," the medicine woman said confidently. "And it is still too early in the season for much snow.

"And with luck, we will have just enough snow to track them easily," Joharran added.

"Not that tracking mammoth is hard," Dalanar said. "What about the strangers? Shall I tell them as well?"

"Of course," Joharran said. "The Picard is the one who Saw the mammoths. It is only right that they should join us, and claim their share."

* * *

"Enterprise to Picard."

The voice sounded hollowly in his head. "Picard here. What is it, Geordi?"

"We have those numbers for you, sir," La Forge said.

"Download them to my tricorder," Picard said, opening it. There was a short pause, then several lights flashed in sequence. Picard thumbed the controls, checking the integrity of the data.

"All complete. I'll look at it right away, with the help of Commander Data," he said.

"Let us know if there is anything else you need, Captain," La Forge said.

"Will do, Geordi. Picard out."

"Greetings, Picard Who Sees," came a voice behind him. He turned around, and saw a tall young man striding up to him.

"Good evening, uh…"

"My name is Dalanar. We met the other night, but perhaps you do not remember. There were so many new faces," the young man said.

"And so much barma," Picard added. "What can I do for you, Dalanar?"

"We found the herd of mammoths you Saw," Dalanar said. "It is only right that your people join us on the hunt."

"We would be honoured," Picard said. "But we have no spears, no weapons."

"What is ours is yours," Dalanar said. "You are the Seer, the eyes. We are but the limbs."

"What time do we leave?" Picard asked.

"At first light," the young man replied. "It will be a good hunt, I know it."

"Thank you," Picard said, turning away. He could feel his skin goosebump with excitement: this was an unparalleled opportunity, one any archaeologist or anthropologist would give their membership in the Daystrom Institute to experience. Part of him regretted that tomorrow a great and noble creature must die, but he knew that here, in the Ice Age, life did not allow such luxuries of conscience. In such a harsh climate, they had to kill to survive.

* * *

"Bridge to Commander La Forge."

La Forge tapped his communicator. "La Forge here. What is it, Koizumi?"

"You better get up here, sir."

"On my way. La Forge out."

"Can't they tell you what the problem is for once?" Brahms asked, putting down her PADD. "Why do they keep you in suspense until you get there?"

"Starfleet regulations, Leah. To prevent officers from jumping to conclusions until they see the full facts."

"If you say so," Brahms said, arching an eyebrow. "Well, I'll be in my quarters if you need me. The engineering team can finish up the rest of the minor repairs to the warp drive easily enough. And I need a rest, preferably before we get to Risa."

"We'd be lost without you, Leah," La Forge said as he headed out the door.  
A few moments later he was on the bridge.

"What is it, Ensign?"

* * *

Picard's subcutaneous communicator beeped gently.

"Captain, better get everyone inside. That storm is about to hit."

"We know, Geordi," Picard said quietly. He looked up, seeing the swiftly-gathering clouds, and wrapped his furs more tightly around his shoulders. The temperature had plummeted at least ten degrees in as many minutes, and he could see his breath. He gave the open area in front of the abri a quick scan, but saw no one. He wasn't surprised: while he had been given advance warning thanks to the sensors aboard Enterprise, the people of the Ninth Cave had long ago learned to read the signs in nature, the warnings the Mother gave before one of her outbursts. They were all in the shelter of stone, and had taken with them everything that was likely to be damaged: the drying racks for the fish, stretched skins being scraped, half-woven reed baskets, and the like were now safely stored in the great abri, protected by thick rock that had withstood everything nature could throw at it for tens of thousands of years, and would for tens of thousands more.

The captain headed back inside, to the Visitors' Hearth. The smell of a dozen dinners being cooked filled the air, the most powerful being the venison that Worf and Jondalar had killed that morning. Picard looked around the gloomy interior, seeing the crude huts, the rough paths, the scattered paraphernalia of the hunter-gatherer tribe piled in neat heaps, and sighed. By any objective measure these people were as poor and backward as any society he had ever encountered. They didn't even have bows and arrows, let alone bronze or any type of metal. And yet they were as content and happy with their lot as any citizen of the mighty Federation.

"How small are the real wants of human nature, which we Europeans have increased to an excess," he muttered, quoting Joseph Banks, the botanist from Cook's voyage into the Pacific some six centuries before his own time.

He pushed open the door to the Visitor's Hearth. It was fairly cramped, even more so with the added company of Ayla, Jondalar, and their child: since Jondalar had helped kill the deer, he had a half-share in its meat, and both sides had welcomed the opportunity for another social gathering. Worf was talking, telling a Klingon legend to Ayla and her husband as he rotated a side of venison over the flames.

"Long ago," Worf said, "a storm was heading for the cave of Quin'lat. Everyone took protection within the walls except one man who remained outside. Kahless went to him and asked what he was doing. 'I am not afraid,' the man said. 'I will not hide my face behind stone and earth. I will stand before the wind and make it respect me.' Kahless honoured his choice and went back inside. The next day, the storm came, and the man was killed, as the wind does not respect a fool."

Ayla and Jondalar looked at each other, confused, then Ayla began to laugh, with Jondalar soon following her.

"It is not a humorous story," Worf said sternly, annoyed at their levity.

"I'm sorry, Worf," Riker laughed, "but it is pretty funny."

"Yes, I have to agree with Will," Picard said. "And never let it be said the Kl—that your people do not possess a great sense of humour."

"That's true," Riker added, rubbing his beard. "I've heard Klingon belly laughs that would curl your hair."

"What is 'Klingon'?" Ayla asked, wondering if it was their word for 'flatheads', and afraid it was, due to Jean-Luc's clear reluctance to say it. She had hoped Picard and his people were more welcoming than that, after all.

Picard and Riker glanced at each other, Riker looking embarrassed at his slip.

"I am a Klingon," Worf said proudly. "We are another people, far away."

"How far?" Jondalar asked.

"Very far," Worf replied, fixing the tall blonde man with a firm stare.

"We haven't seen anyone who looks like you before," Ayla said, hoping to find out some more about his people, and especially how they were treated by the tribe Picard came from.

"No, just, uh, Clan," Jondalar said.

"What are Clan?" Worf asked.

"They are Neanderthals, Worf," Picard explained.

"I am not familiar with them," Worf admitted.

"There are none from where we come from," Picard said, skirting the truth.

"So you do not have any Clan in you?" Ayla asked. "The mother of your mother, perhaps?"

"No," Worf said. "I do not."

"But you are not of the same people as Picard?" she pressed, seeking answers.

"I am not."

"We know of many different people," Jondalar added thoughtfully. "The Clan have the same colouring as us, though their hair is darker. Then there was Ranec's mother's people, who have dark skin and dark curly hair. I have never seen them, but Ranec had some of their colouring. Even in the depths of winter his skin never went pale. And Hochaman's people, who have low noses and narrow eyes. But we have never seen people like you."

"His people come from a long way away," Picard said. "Much farther than you have travelled, Jondalar."

"Further than Hochaman?"

Picard nodded.

"So how did you come to be here?" Jondalar asked.

"I was orphaned as a child, and raised by Captain Picard's people," Worf said. "They took me in when my family were slaughtered by the treacherous Romulans, and raised me as one of them."

Ayla looked at the tall dark man, feeling her eyes prickle. She remembered Iza, the only mother she had ever known, and how she had taken the lost and injured child in, protecting her, giving her a home, even though she was of a different people. Life with the Clan had been hard at times, trying to adapt to their culture and way of life, having to suppress her instincts. How had this man fared, she wondered? What was his life like? She looked at Worf, seeing him now as a kindred spirit. And she felt a sudden flush of warmth towards Picard and his people for taking in someone different, an orphan like she was, bereft of family. She hugged her child tighter. You, at least, have a mother, she thought. One who will never leave you.

She shook her head to get rid of the sudden pit of fear that opened up when she thought of her visions, and stuck a long slim sliver of wood into the roasting meat.

"I think this is done," she said, examining the colour of the fluid that ran out. When it was clear, and not bloody, that meant it was cooked. The smell was already almost overpowering, and there was an audible sensation of relief at her words: everyone was clearly very hungry.

"I will carve the beast," Worf said. "Pass me a blade."

Jondalar took out a thin flint knife, and handed it to Worf. The big Klingon took it, hefting its weight, and ran a thumb along the edge. He grunted his approval, and expertly sliced off layers of rich juicy venison.

"That looks good," Riker said, proffering his wooden plate. "Don't you agree, Reg?"

"Um, yes," Barclay said. It did look good, he had to admit. And it smelled even better. Food aboard the Enterprise, though replicated, was still bound by centuries of tradition: meat was still meat, still created to look like beef or lamb or pork. In fact, regardless of whether it came from a living animal or was created from protein synthesis, the texture and flavour were the same, or almost – gourmets insisted that nothing could substitute for the real thing: subtle differences of climate or soil or feed could, they claimed, produce very distinct differences in flavour. Barclay had never tried real meat before arriving in the Ice Age, and the one time he had tried fresh vegetables he had been unable to stop himself imaging the taste of dirt in his mouth. Even Keiko O'Brien's assurances that they had been grown hydroponically and had never come within ten light years of real dirt hadn't assuaged him. But the meat the previous night had been better than he had expected, and while he had lain awake at night for some time feeling his stomach, wondering if he was going to be able to digest it, nothing untoward had happened at all. So it was with more enthusiasm than before that he accepted a heaped platter of roast venison, and began to devour it.

"Is it common for your people to live with ones like us?" Jondalar asked, looking at Worf.

"It is not," Worf replied tersely. "As far as I know, I am the only one."

"Why is that?"

Worf glanced at Picard briefly.

"Our two peoples did not always get along," Picard explained, wiping his mouth. "There were many battles, but in the end peace prevailed."

"So your two peoples no longer fight?" Ayla asked, her heart in her throat. Suddenly she remembered another vision of hers, one perhaps even more disturbing than the ones of the Mother leaving them.

_She had two sons, brothers whom no one would guess were brothers. One was tall and blond like Jondalar, the other, older one, she knew was Durc, though his face was in shadow. The two brothers approached each other from opposite directions in the middle of an empty, desolate, windblown prairie. She felt great anxiety; something terrible was about to happen, something she had to prevent. Then, with a shock of terror, she knew one of her sons would kill the other. As they drew closer, she tried to reach them, but a thick viscous wall held her trapped. They were almost upon each other, arms raised as though to strike. _

"Perhaps they do not fight," she whispered to herself. "Perhaps they come together to clasp each other in peace…."

"What are you talking about, Ayla?" Picard asked.

She shook her head. "It is nothing. Do not worry." She looked up and smiled, her face radiant. "Perhaps the future is not dark after all. Perhaps we can all live in peace."

"Perhaps we can," Picard said, but Ayla's face fell as she saw his expression. It was one of great sadness and loss. She felt frightened, alone. What, she wondered for the umpteenth time, did he know that she did not?

.

* * *

**NOTES:**

I figure Ayla's been teaching the others how to do that double-sling trick.

I have never actually been fishing in my life. I prefer my fish neatly sliced and served on lightly vinegared rice. Or filleted and grilled. Smoked snapper is also nice. So I hope the fishing scene isn't too inaccurate.

The bit about not telling people why they're summoned to the bridge is my personal fanwank. In the TV series of course it's all about the drama and suspense, but I wanted to try and find a rational reason for it.

The story Worf tells during the storm is a "real" Klingon story, or at least a canon one. As is Riker's response about Klingon belly laughs (It's in "Redemption", but Guinan says it).

I love finding parallels between Trek characters and EC characters, like here with Worf. It reinforces my idea that the two worlds blend well bit in italics is from the original EC to place it in context.

I'm going to post this soon after the previous chapter, as those who have my story on alert may not have realized I fixed the previous chapter's issues, and this might help them realize. So if you are wondering what the hell is going on in this chapter, make sure you've read the previous, fixed, version….


	19. Song of the Huntress

**19\. Song of the Huntress**

"Captain, it is time."

"What is it, Mr Data?" Picard opened his eyes, the soot-blackened stone ceiling swimming into focus.

"The mammoth hunt begins this morning," Data said, as the sounds of people talking in low voices, the dull clatter of wood on stone, the rough shuffling of leather on rock, penetrated the enclosure.

Picard sat up, accepting a cup of herb tea, and sipped it gratefully. "Ayla was here earlier: she wishes you to meet with her, Zelandoni, and Joharran as soon as you are ready."

"Very good," Picard said, setting down the empty cup. "What is for breakfast?"

"More mash, I'm afraid," Riker said, handing his captain a bowl.

"We should be feasting on meat," Worf growled, looking disdainfully at his breakfast. "How can we slaughter flesh if we do not fill our bellies with it?"

"Perhaps we could go hunting for some vegetables instead," Barclay ventured, not daring to meet the big Klingon's eyes.

A light scratching at the rawhide door interrupted their meal. It was pushed aside, and Joharran entered.

"Greetings, honoured visitors," he said. "In the name of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii, I would like to invite you to join our hunt, share in its bounty, and through the generosity of the Mother, perhaps we may create bonds between our two peoples."

"Thank you, on behalf of my own people, for such a gracious offer," Picard said. This was what it was all about – this was why he was captain of the Enterprise. To seek out and learn about new ways of life, meet new peoples, and expand the circle of friendship and fraternity. The galaxy was a hostile place, and every time he met people like the Zelandonii he was filled with renewed determination, and a desire to never give into despair at the petty political bickering and wars that seemed to take such a disproportionate amount of his work.

"We will be leaving soon," Joharran said. "We are gathering in the open part of the abri, and when you are ready you may join us there. We will provide you with anything you need. Zelandoni has already asked the Mother for success in the hunt, and I am sure that having you with us will help even more."

"I will do what I can," Picard said. "We shall be ready soon. Thank you, Joharran."

* * *

The morning was crisply cold, the storm having blown itself out in the night, giving way to clear skies that allowed the heat to escape. There was not as much snow as Joharran had expected, and as the day wore on he suspected it would soon vanish. But not for long: as the days deepened into winter, the snow would take longer and longer to begin melting, and one day it would not – it would settle deeper and deeper, shutting them off in a world of whiteness. That was the long dark period when skins were turned into clothing, new blades fashioned, baskets woven, and stories told. Joharran was sure that this winter would see some new stories, and hoped the visitors would stay and share more.

The group of hunters moved up the path to the steppes in single file, heading west, towards where the runners had confirmed the mammoths were headed. Ayla was riding Whinney near Jondalar, who was on Racer just ahead of Picard and the other strangers. She was tingling with excitement. It had been a long time since she had had mammoth, and the thought of the rich, succulent meat was making her hungry. Shortly after she had arrived at the Ninth Cave, some members of the Nineteenth Cave had shared their mammoth with them, but there was nothing like mammoth you had hunted and killed yourself. Ayla loved to hunt, and each time she did so she thought back to how she had had to hunt in secret, fearful of discovery, when she lived with the Clan, and gave thanks to the Mother or her totem that she was now able to hunt freely. She looked at the tall, confident form of her mate, and, for the first time in a long while, began to have hope for the future.

* * *

The gently undulating plains of central France spread out before them. Picard looked out over the vast grasslands, and tried to compare it with what he knew of the region in his time. Aquitaine, the name this land would one day bear, was in the 24th century a lush green land of wine and grape, the famous Bordeaux – a wine much favoured by Vulcans, who had no tradition of vinery until they met humans. In his mind he contrasted the deep green forests and pastures of his time with the dry golden-ochre tones of the sea of grass that spread out around him. He didn't know the region well enough to see any geographical similarities, and as he glanced at his companions, Palaeolithic hunter-gatherers from a vastly different time, he had to keep reminding himself that he was on Earth, not some remote planet. The dichotomy between where he was and what he was seeing was almost dizzyingly great. So close to home, yet so far….

"Mammoths! I see a herd of mammoths!" Worf called out.

"Where?" Barclay said, suddenly nervous. He gripped his spear tightly, his heart pounding. He knew there was no way he would be able to hunt; he was just concerned about avoiding injury from the great beasts, or even a mis-thrown spear. He patted his tunic, feeling the reassuring hardness of his phaser.

The excitement spread through the hunters like fire. There was a certain relief in sighting the mammoths. The runners had been accurate, the mammoths had not moved off. Those were ever-present worries in hunting. But whatever it was that the Mother had been waiting for, she had finally allowed the greatest of her creatures to present themselves to her Children so that they might feast during the long dark of winter.

Joharran signalled to his most experienced hunters, and they fanned out rapidly. Worf joined them, his heavy spear in a loose, relaxed grip, and they jogged along silently, keeping downwind of the giant animals.

"What do we do now?" Worf asked when they had stopped, crouching in the long grass.

"We wait," Joharran said beside him, his atlal held loosely, ready for use.

"They will drive them?" Worf asked, already knowing the answer. It was a good plan, considering the size of the beasts. He would prefer to stalk them himself, a single hunter against a single animal, but he did admit this was more efficient. In Klingon culture, the hunt was more important than the kill, but here they did not have replicators and farms and livestock: hunting was their way of life, even more important in their culture than it was in Klingon, and Worf respected that. What they might lack in ideology and refinement, they more than made up for in sheer primal courage and determination. It would be a good day, he could tell.

* * *

"This way, Jean-Luc," Ayla said, guiding Picard to a raised area where he could see the herd in the middle distance, as yet giving no signs that they were aware of the humans. And why should they, he thought. They were the largest and strongest animals on the plains: not even a cave lion or sabre-tooth could bring down a bull mammoth in his prime. The predators stuck to the young or the weak – all except Man, who while insignificant individually, had the ability to plan and coordinate group attacks that, in combination with their use of tools and weapons, rendered them far more lethal than any other danger. But Man was still a recent arrival here, in evolutionary terms, and the giant beasts had not yet learned to fear them.

"How are you going to catch them?" he asked, looking over the grasslands.

"We drive them with fire to the waiting hunters," Ayla said. "When I hunted with the Mamutoi, we drove them into a canyon, but there are none nearby. So we will be lucky to bring down one, and it might be more dangerous."

There was an edge in her voice that caught Picard's ear. She was scared, he suddenly realised. This was no mere cultural demonstration to her: it was deadly serious—it was, literally, life and death for her and her people.

Jondalar trotted up to them on Racer, holding a long unlit torch.

"Are you ready?" he asked, nodding briefly at Picard before gesturing to Ayla.

She nodded, picking up her own torch, and mounting Whinney. Picard watched them canter down the slope, followed by the rest of the hunting party.

"Will you join us?" came a voice.

Picard looked around, and saw Marona, an inviting smile on her attractive face.

"I am too old for this," he said.

"Perhaps your companions?" she asked.

"With your permission, captain, I'd like to join in," Riker said. "All I have to do is drive the herd – I shouldn't be in any danger."

"I would like to go too, sir," Data added.

Picard thought briefly, weighing the situation up. There was the very real danger than a spooked mammoth could turn and run them down, inflicting severe injuries. Would it be possible to beam them to the Enterprise sickbay in such an eventuality? In the confusion, it should be possible, he decided.

"Make it so. And…be careful, Number One."

"Yes sir," Riker said emphatically. "What about you, Reg?"

"Um, I, well, I think I might be of more use, uh, here," Barclay stammered.

"You sure you don't want to hunt mammoth?" Riker said, grinning.

"It's not that I don't appreciate the offer, Commander," Barclay said nervously. "I just don't think I'd be of much use. I've never thrown a spear in my life."

"The lieutenant is correct," Data said. "His Starfleet record shows no sign of him ever having thrown a spear. He has wielded a sword, on the holodeck, in character in his Three Musketeers programme, but we are not using swords at the moment."

"And I was only any good in the holodeck," Barclay muttered, embarrassed about being reminded of the fantasy life he had created on the holodeck, with caricatures of Riker, Troi, La Forge and Picard that he could boss around.

"Never mind, you can help skin them and gut them," Riker said, enjoying the expression on Barclay's face. "Now, Marona, if you would show us where to go, we would be happy to assist you."

"Of course," she said, leading them down the slope. The conversation had gone entirely over her head, but no matter – it was to be expected that strangers would talk about strange things. They were not after all Zelandonii, and could not be expected to act normally. She saw Ayla on her ridiculous horse off in the distance, and grimaced. Horses, wolves, lions – what next? Would Ayla try and tame a mammoth perhaps? That would be a joke. But then Ayla was a joke. A cruel, bitter joke. On her. Well, not for much longer….

* * *

Ayla wheeled Whinney around with light pressure from her thighs. Both hands were carrying flaming torches, and as she directed Whinney towards the herd she held them high, waving them. She could see Jondalar approaching from the opposite side, coming together in a pincer movement to drive the mammoths towards the waiting hunters. At a signal from her, the other women suddenly stood up, each carrying a torch, and walked towards the huge animals.

At first the mammoths did not notice the puny creature approaching them. Their scent was not threatening: they were not cave lions or sabre-toothed cats, and there was no reason to fear them. But as the wind carried the smell of burning wood and grass to them, the herd began to feel uneasy. Fire was dangerous: on the dry steppes of late summer and autumn, a small spark could give birth to a raging blaze that would consume all in its path, even the great mammoths. So they turned, and moved away slowly.

But then strange creatures approached them, with scents that were both familiar and yet unfamiliar, and tinged with the deadly fragrance of fire. They were fast, too – much faster than the other animals, and closing on the herd swiftly. The matriarch lifted her trunk and trumpeted a loud blast of warning as the herd wheeled and began moving swiftly away from the threat. So worried were they about the danger from behind that they paid no attention to the small creatures that suddenly rose up and blocked their path, and would have charged straight through them, save for the sudden biting pain that shot through the belly of the matriarch as they neared them. Another painful jolt struck her belly, and she screamed her agony. As she did so something flew in her mouth, piercing the soft upper palate and entering her brain. Death was swift as the old mammoth toppled gently to her knees, then fell heavily onto the ground, still dusted with snow that was now tinted a deep red.

* * *

Worf was in his element as the great beasts whirled in panic. This! This was hunting! He had had no idea that humans had ever been so – so vital, so alive! The calm, decorous, ordered world of Starfleet and the Federation was as different from this as night and day. He knew humans were extremely proficient warriors; their military victories, at times even over Klingons, showed that. But he had never seen them hunt and kill on a scale like this, never seen them be true to their primal nature, the same primal nature that was the source of Klingon culture and strength. It was… eye-opening. These were a people truly after his own heart. These were a people he would be proud to call his own.

A huge shape loomed up before him. Seeing an opening, Worf reached back and thrust a spear with such force that it broke the mammoth's ribcage, then jumped out of the way as the animal crashed at his feet.

Joharran, beside him, clapped him on the shoulder.

"I see why they call you a great hunter," he said as he briefly touched the head of the fallen animal.

"My people would be very impressed with your prowess, as well," Worf noted, then joined the tall blond man in giving thanks for the animal's life. All around them small groups of hunters were attacked the mammoths, and the ground was slippery with mud and blood. He could see Jondalar with another group, and snorted as the animal escaped their reach and thundered off. A brief scream caught his ear, and he turned to see Ayla plunge her spear into a mammoth. Good, Worf thought, watching her appreciatively. She has the stance and responses of a true huntress. He watched as the mammoth died, and Ayla administered the coup de grace.

* * *

Relieved at seeing the first mammoth down safely, Ayla dropped her torches and grabbed her spear, slipping it into a thrower. She wheeled Whinney around and charged at a large bull, aiming for his stomach. A powerful throw sent the short spear flying with deadly accuracy, ripping a hole in the mammoth's belly. A young man then rushed in and enlarged the wound with the tip of his spear, spilling out the animal's intestines onto the ground. The air was filled with screams and trumpetings as the bull stumbled, slipping on his own entrails, and crashed heavily to the ground. Ayla slipped off Whinney, who galloped out of the way, and dashed in to administer the killing strike to the eye.

Marona watched Ayla as she thrust her spear deep into the bull mammoth's skull, then stood triumphant over the fallen animal. She herself was keeping well out of the way, using her torch to drive back any animal that looked as if it might be heading in her direction, and observing the flow of the hunt. She knew that Ayla would be in the thick of it, fearless, her only thought on killing meat for the long winter. Ayla retrieved her spear, touching the dead mammoth briefly on the head to thank it and the Mother for its life, and then cast around for another target. She spotted one, a young animal near the edge of the herd, and headed out towards it. Marona smiled. Ayla was alone – this was her chance. She could drive the mammoth towards Ayla, making it trample her underfoot. Raising her torch, the young woman dashed forward.

* * *

Ayla jogged towards the target she had selected, judging the distance as she readied her spear-thrower. Stopping a short distance away, she took aim, but suddenly the animal screamed and charged, directly at her. Ayla swiftly threw the spear, but it glanced off the thick matted crown of the mammoth, leaving her unarmed. There was nowhere to run: the mammoth was on her. Then, suddenly, it stopped, and wheeled around. She saw a spear sticking out of its rump, and behind it, the frightened face of Marona.

Marona had thrown her torch at the mammoth, panicking the young animal into running away, But as it neared Ayla, and the young blonde woman's spear had had no effect, Marona suddenly realised she was no killer. She might resent and envy Ayla, might wish she had never arrived, or even that she was dead, but she suddenly knew that she herself could not kill her rival – it was unthinkable to cause the death of another, unheard of: before she even had time to consider what she was doing, she had thrust her spear into the mammoth's rear end, causing it to wheel around in anger and pain.

Ayla dived for her spear as the mammoth charged back towards Marona, but she knew she would be too late. The mammoth was too close: Marona had obviously thrust the spear, not thrown it, and there was not enough time. But before she could even find her spear there was a sudden flash of brilliant green light, followed by a thunderous crash. Astonished, Ayla realised that the mammoth had fallen, skidding to a halt barely an arm's length away from the petrified Marona.

* * *

Worf had seen the mammoth charging, and the swift reaction of the young woman behind it whose quick actions had saved Ayla's life. But he knew she would be killed in turn, as Ayla had no spear. Worf dashed forward, but knew there was only one option. He drew his phaser out, thumbed it to the 'kill' setting, and shot. As the mammoth crashed to the ground, he was right behind it, his phaser already hidden again, and checking the terrified young woman for any sign of harm. To his relief she was unhurt. She just stood there, unmoving, her eyes staring at the dead mammoth.

Out of the corner of his eye Worf was aware of Ayla moving towards them, spear in hand. She went up to the young woman, and stopped, staring back.

"Marona…. Are you – are you all right?"

There was no reply. Ayla moved closer, and her eyes swiftly ran over Marona's body, looking for blood. There was nothing, and she heaved a sigh of relief.

"I'm so glad you're safe. You were so brave, Marona. You saved my life, and I am in your debt. Marona, are you all right? You're safe – the mammoth is dead. Marona?"

Suddenly Marona began weeping. Sobbing, she collapsed on the ground as Ayla ran to hold her up, hugging her. Marona didn't seem to notice however; she gave in to her fear, and wept. Ayla held her tight as she gave in to her emotions, the fear and relief and humiliation and gratitude a chaotic mess of passion.

"Marona, there's nothing to worry about – the mammoth is dead, you are safe, and you saved my life," Ayla repeated, stroking the other's soft hair.

"I agree," Worf said. "You showed great courage. Warriors in the heat of battle have been more cowardly that you, stabbing a great beast at such short range. I am impressed. Songs have been sung for less," he added.

"Worf, there you are," Jondalar said, coming up to them. "Jean-Luc is looking for you."

"Thank you, Jondalar. It was a good hunt," Worf said, nodding.

"Ayla, I was so worried," Jondalar said, not noticing Worf now that he had delivered his message. "You were almost killed. I don't know what I would have done if – if that… if anything had happened."

"Marona saved me," Ayla said, disentangling herself from the shorter girl, and smiling at Jondalar.

"Marona? How?"

"She attacked it as it was charging me, and turned it away from herself," Ayla explained. She wasn't sure how to explain the mysterious green light she had seen – a long stabbing beam like a shaft of sunlight through a cloudy sky that pierced the mammoth's heart. It killed the animal, she was sure. But how could light kill? Was this another vision, a waking dream, as she sometimes had? But no – the mammoth lay there dead: that much was certain. She resolved to discuss the matter with Jean-Luc as soon as they returned to the abri.

"Marona… attacked it?" Jondalar was saying. He looked directly at her, wondering. She had never struck him as overly brave or a good hunter, and now here she was, saving his mate's life. He was aware that in the past Ayla and Marona had not got along terribly well, though he wasn't sure why. At any rate, she had saved Ayla's life, and he was indebted to her. "You have saved the life of my mate, Marona. In return I can offer you nothing but my respect, and deepest gratitude. We will celebrate your heroism tonight, and you shall have the heart of the mammoth. I shall speak with Joharran of your bravery, and Zelandoni, and…." He trailed off in his excitement. "Marona… I am amazed at your bravery. Truly, I had underestimated you," he finished, admiring her.

As the shock wore off, Marona slowly began to take in her situation. She was furious with herself for breaking down in front of Ayla, of all people, but the respect on the tall blonde woman's face was something she had never seen there before. And Jondalar was standing there looking at her with the look he used to give her, those deep blue eyes, like ice on fire, sending warm rushes throughout her body. It had been so long since he had looked at her like that, and for a moment she yearned to reach up and kiss him. But not with Ayla there. She glanced at her rival again, seeing the thanks in her blue-grey eyes, and slowly smiled. _It may not have been what I planned_, she thought_, but for once it is I who have the upper hand – I am the hero, I am the one with the glory. And I gained it through rescuing you: my triumph is at your expense. I can live with that, I think_….

* * *

"Yes, Captain?"

Picard's face was forbidding, his lips pursed firmly together. Worf knew this look, and what it meant. This conversation was not going to be pleasant.

"Who authorised the use of phasers?" Picard asked coldly, looking out over the carnage. People were already beginning the laborious process of skinning and butchering the animals. Picard counted four dead mammoths, the others having long since scattered. It would perhaps be some time before the herd ventured this way again.

"My use was unauthorised, Captain. I apologise." Worf knew there was no point in trying to beat about the bush or dodge the question: even if his Klingon honour had allowed it, the captain would have seen straight through him. Nor was he a man who enjoyed being given the run-around. It was best to confess all.

Picard looked at him directly. "I trust I do not have to tell you, Lieutenant, about the dangers of using phasers among pre-warp civilisation. How am I expected to explain this? Well? Why did you do it?"

"A mammoth was about to run down one of the Zelandoni women," Worf explained. "There was no time to save her, and a spear would not have stopped the beast in time. She would have died."

"And do you realise what you might have done?" Picard asked sternly. "This person was meant to die now. Worf, I commend your compassion, but now that she is alive, how will history change? Her children's children's children, for hundreds of generations, are now going to influence the course of events. We come briefly and leave quickly, remembered only as stories from long ago, and then forgotten. But any change for these people is going to affect the entire history of Earth, Worf. And in ways we cannot begin to calculate. Do you understand what I am saying?"

"I do, Captain," Worf said, looking straight ahead. "I did not act as a Starfleet officer, and accept any discommendation you feel is necessary."

There was a brief silence, and then to his surprise he felt the captain pat him on the upper arm.

"I can't really blame you for doing what you did," Picard said in a quiet voice. "I can stand here and give you the official Starfleet dogma, but truth be told, I probably would have done the same. It's almost impossible to stand by and take no action. The Prime Directive is very hard to live up to, is it not?"

"You are correct, sir," Data said. He had drifted out of earshot while the captain was reprimanding Worf, but now returned to his senior officer's side. "I myself have been guilty of violating it before. And while technically it is true that the death or life of anyone here could indeed have profound effects on human history, it is highly unlikely."

"How is that, Commander?" Worf asked.

"The flow of history is seldom driven by individual actions, but by the great social changes and systems that we live in. While an individual can make a difference, it is very rare that that difference is significant. If Genghis Khan had never existed, Jelme or Subutai may well have taken the lead in establishing the Mongol Empire: the names might be different, but the great sweep of events may well have played out in similar fashion."

"Precisely," Picard added. "The nineteenth century philosopher and historian Thomas Carlyle commented that 'The history of the world is but the biography of great men,' but this theory is usually contrasted with a theory that talks about events occurring in the fullness of time, or when an overwhelming wave of smaller events cause certain developments to occur. Social controls, rather than great leaders, act as spurs to historical development."

"Such a theory would not be popular on Qo'nos," Worf said.

"Perhaps the image of Kahless and the great warriors whose statues line the Great Hall of the High Council might not appreciate it," Data offered.

"They would not," Worf stated categorically.

"Be that as it may, Lieutenant," Picard said, "please do your best to ensure that events that do not involve us play out as far as possible without any further serious interference. We have made enough of a mess as it is, frankly."

.

* * *

**Notes: **

Action is not my strong suit in writing. I like the ideas and conversations, not the Action Climaxes (not that this is the climax of the story). The climax, so to speak, of this story will in fact be ideas and conversations.

I had hoped to get in more about Riker and Data and Co in the hunt, but wanted to focus on Ayla and Marona and get that out of the way. Riker and Co. can (and will) tell their tales at the feast that night, which will hopefully be a more fun way to describe it than in a normal hunting scene. At least for me it will be.

Incidentally, if anyone doesn't know, the Ninth Cave's site is a real archaeological site, and really exists. Auel didn't make it up. So the location is accurate.

Jelme and Subutai, as is hopefully obvious from context, were high-ranking generals in Genghis Khan's army. The Carlyle quote and all that are also accurate.


	20. The Mother's Bounty

**20\. The Mother's Bounty**

The fire blazed up in the middle of the open area of the great abri, filling the huge cavern with light and warmth. Several spits over smaller fires surrounding it carried slabs of mammoth meat, golden-red chunks of flesh that shone with juice. The entire population of the Ninth Cave was gathered in a wide ring around the fires, with clusterings of families and friends.

Picard and his crew were in the place of honour with Joharran, Zelandoni, Ayla and Jondalar, and Marthona. Also there, to her surprise and pleasure, was Marona. She had been led there by Joharran, who had made a brief speech about her bravery in saving Ayla's life. Marona had been both awed and pleased by the impression Joharran's speech had made on the Ninth Cave, and she knew everyone was looking at her with greatly increased respect. The only annoying thing was Ayla insisting that she sit beside her. Marona's dislike of the tall blonde beauty had in no way lessened, and it was galling to think that Ayla might try and become friends with her. Sure, Marona thought to herself, there were worse people to have on your side – that disgusting Laramar, for example, or the semi-human Brukeval – but she didn't want Ayla, or worse yet, Jondalar, thinking that all was forgiven.

Beside her, Ayla sat in blissful ignorance of the turmoil in Marona's mind. She was only concerned with the feast, the basking in the joy and relief of a successful hunt, safe and home with her friends and family. She rejected any thought of the future, or her fears, and turned her attention to the mammoth meat that was almost ready. But while she waited, there was soup and bouza to whet the appetite, and she content to wait. The smell promised that it would be well worth it.

The younger children had been deputised to roast the meat: their share would come later, when the adults had eaten. In the meantime they were learning how to cook under the watchful supervision of an older woman, who prodded the great chunks of meat with a sharpened stick every so often. Picard was impressed with the smooth and efficient organisation with which they did it, the product of a millennium of practice.

"How much longer do you think it will be?" he asked.

"Not much," Ayla said. She smiled at him, "I am as eager as you for the feast to begin. But first there is the ritual benediction from Zelandoni."

"Ah, of course," Picard said, directing his attention to the chief shamaness. She rose now, her imposing girth made more impressive by the thick fur collar of her jacket, carefully bulked up to spread out behind her neck in a fan. Holding out her arms for silence, she began to chant in a low voice, a soft melodic rhythm that Ayla knew well: it was part of the Mother's Song. After a few verses from the sacred chant, she stopped, and raised her voice loud enough to be heard by all.

"The long days of the Mother's bounty are once again drawing to a close, as she begins her period of rest and renewal. We who have survived on her bounty throughout the warm seasons must prepare ourselves yet again for when the world is wrapped in the cold soft snow that falls from the endless sky, and in order to help us you have sent us this final bounty. We offer you our thanks."

She raised a long bone object, carved with various patterns that Picard could not make out, and shook it vigorously. It rattled loudly, and she began to move around the fire, carrying the rattle and shaking it loudly with each step. Finally she arrived back at the head of the circle, and stopped. She took out a soft leather pouch and unwrapped it, revealing a long yellow-white tooth: the massive fang of a sabre-toothed cat. How old the tooth was, no one knew: it had been with the Ninth Cave since anyone could remember, and was one of their most sacred objects. It symbolised the power of the hunters of the Earth, who took down their prey not with stone and bone but tooth and claw. It was the primal weapon, the model for all stabbing blades since, and symbolised their connection to the natural forces that defined their way of life.

Picking the tooth up, she advanced to the largest piece of roasting meat. Zelandoni moved the tooth over the top of it, then stabbed quickly downwards with both hands, stopping her stroke just before the tip contacted the meat.

"Thus we signify our hunting of this final gift of the Mother, and give thanks to her spirit and that of her children, the mammoths, so we may eat well this winter. We who are about to eat, salute you."

"To the Seer, who has brought us this day's bounty, shall go the heart of the mammoth," Joharran intoned, rising to his feet. "He who eats of the heart of the mammoth shall gain the strength and wisdom of the mammoth. This is our thanks to you, your cave, and to the Mother who has guided your spirit."

Two young men approached Picard, carrying a huge red-brown mass of meat on a large platter between them. It was clearly still very raw, and the captain eyed it warily. He looked around, wondering what the etiquette was. He knew that there was no way he would be expected to eat the entire heart – it was twice the size of his head. Then he spotted the small slim bone blade lying next to it on the wooden platter. With a few deft slices he carved out the minimum size he felt would not cause offence, and gulped it down. He was relieved to see the heart being passed to the others, and allowed himself a smile at the size of the piece Worf took, and the evident gusto with which he consumed it. When the platter was passed to Barclay, the engineer at first tried to pretend he didn't see it, but a firm nudge in the ribs from Riker made him stretch out a nervous hand and cut off a slice of meat so thin it was almost transparent. He paused before putting it in his mouth, but to Picard's relief, Barclay ate the slip of meat, quickly swallowing it whole.

Beside him, Riker grinned, and winked at Worf.

"You have done well, Reg," the Klingon said. "Let me invite you to dinner back on the Enterprise, when we return."

"Really? Uh, I mean, thank you sir," Barclay stammered.

"Indeed," Worf rumbled. "I am impressed with you tonight, and would like to serve you some fresh gagh."

"Gurgh," Barclay said, coughing at the honour. "I'm…I'm sorry, Commander, I think I'm allergic to raw Klingon serpent-worms," he muttered, not meeting the eyes of either of his superior officers. To his relief, they both let out loud laughs, and he ventured a smile.

After the heart was eaten, the tension level in the cave decreased notably, and the air was soon filled with the hum of conversation. Soon large platters of meat were being passed around, with the prime cuts going to the elders, who sat in dignified silence at the far side of the circle from Picard, and to the leaders of the Ninth Cave and their guests. The mammoth roast was served on large wooden or pelvic bone platters along with various roots, vegetables, and even late autumn fruits and nuts.

Ayla took a large bite of her portion, and sighed. Mammoth meat was just as rich and tender as she remembered, and now it was also full of memories, memories of people who had been kind and welcoming and tender, who had allowed her into their home and their tribe, and whom she would almost certainly never see again. Nor would she her son. So much sadness, so much loss… Fighting back tears, she took a large mouthful of bouza, and tried to maintain her composure.

Worf ripped a large hunk of meat off with his teeth, and chewed it with gusto. The meat was very good: rich and fatty, full of juices. He must talk to the captain about adding it to the replicator menu, he decided – even though replicated meat was never more than a pale shadow of the real thing.

"Good?" Riker asked, grinning.

"It is good, Commander," Worf replied tersely. "These people are brave and noble hunters. They are…" He put down his meat, and looked at Riker seriously. "Commander, I must tell you something, as you are a human. Sometimes, in my heart, I have felt…shame…that my foster parents were human. Perhaps that is why I have fought so hard to be recognised as Klingon. You learned, from serving briefly aboard the Klingon Bird-of-Prey, the IKS Pagh, that Klingons can lack a certain…respect…for humans."

"Yes, I did notice that," Riker said dryly. "But there are many who do, however."

"Of course," Worf conceded. "The Klingon High Council has great respect for humans, as do many of our Great Houses."

"With the exception of the House of Duras," Riker noted wryly. "They tried to have the captain killed."

"The Duras are without honour," Worf spat, his contempt obvious. "But while the more wise and far-seeing of my people respect humans, there are still many lower-ranked Klingons who think of humans as weak and cowardly, as they depend too much on technology and live on a tame planet, where the most dangerous thing that could happen to you is stubbing your toe. And worst of all, you do not hunt or eat meat." Worf looked around at the ring of humans surrounding the fire. "But I can see now that what we Klingons know of humans is not the full story: that at heart your people and mine are very much alike. Your current Federation ideals are just a veneer: humans are hunters too. We have the same heritage, you and I, human and Klingon."

"I honour your words, old friend," Riker said. "And thank you for your honesty."

"I would be honoured to share your meal and your stories," came a voice.

Riker turned, and found Marthona standing nearby, a gentle smile on her face.

"Please, sit," he said, gallantly offering her his own smooth rock. She nodded gracefully, and slipped onto the stone. Riker found another, and dragged it closer.

"What do you wish to know?" he asked.

"First, share my meat," Marthona asked, offering him a slice of succulent roast. Riker took it with his fingers, and slurped it down. "Good," Marthona said. "We must share food before we can share stories. I hear that you and your companions acquitted themselves well today."

"Well, Worf is the real hunter," Riker said. "Perhaps you should hear from him how it went."

"Of course," Marthona said. She turned to face the Klingon, looking at him expectantly.

"It was a glorious hunt," Worf said. "First, I found myself with your chief, Joharran, and we crouched in the long grass with our spears. The mark of a good hunter is his ability to wait, to be patient. This is the time to shore up the belly – that is, to prepare yourself with ritualistic deep breathing techniques and strengthen the stomach muscles in preparation. As I finished the Tlhuh-Miq breathing ritual, I could smell the scent of the beasts. It was an earthy, peaty aroma, with a touch of lilac. Shouts and screams came towards me from the beaters, and the scent changed as the animals began to panic. I gripped my spear, feeling the Hos-Ghnuh, the Strong Stomach, and braced my legs to spring.

"A great tusked beast rose up before me, and I thrust my spear deep into its vulnerable belly and saw the bloody viscera slide out in shining coils. The beast screamed like a stuck Targ, and aimed its tusks at me. But I dodged backwards, and Joharran thrust his spear into its mouth. The animal gurgled, then fell to the ground with a massive crash. I withdrew my spear and walked to its head, looking into its tiny eye, which looked back at me in fear and anger. We locked eyes for a moment, and then I thrust my spear into its eye socket and penetrated its brain. A noble creature died, and I honour its spirit here tonight with my words."

Worf finished his short speech, and took a swig of bouza. Its harsh alcohol burned his throat like blood wine, but without the Klingon beverage's subtle palates and harmonious flavours. It was not even as good as Romulan ale, he had to admit, but it was alcoholic, and that was the important part.

"Quite the story, Worf," Riker said admiringly. Klingons made wonderful storytellers, he knew: free time on the IKS Pagh, the Kling Bird-of-Prey, was largely devoted to telling tales of great battles and hunts, often suitably embellished.

"It was a good day to kill," Worf said brusquely.

"Will did a very good job too," Joharran said. "I saw him help take down the matriarch."

"With help from others," Riker said, deflecting the praise. It had been an interesting experience, but not one that he would care to repeat. The only way he had been able to go through with it was because it was vital for these people, for his friends, to have meat for the winter. Otherwise he would have rejected the killing as senseless, and refused to participate if at all possible.

"We may have all helped," Jondalar added, "but you struck the decisive blow."

"Well, I don't know about that," Riker said. "You were the one who actually managed to get a spear between the ribs and into its lungs."

"True, my friend, but you were the one who slashed its leg tendons, bringing it down in the first place. That was an inspired technique, truly."

"You know about the weakness of the tendons, surely?" Riker asked.

Jondalar nodded. "Of course. But actually getting a spear in there is not easy. How did you do it?"

"Pure luck, I guess," Riker said. That was only half the story, however. The key difference was how he had used the spear to slice rather than stab: in a world without swords or bladed weapons, cutting was only something done with hand tools on skins and leathers, not a means of attack, and Riker didn't want to introduce a new technique before its time.

"That's enough hunting talk," Marthona said, standing up to get another plate of meat. "We will have plenty of long cold nights to swap stories as it is."

"And let us not forget that without the generosity of the Mother there would be nothing to hunt in the first place," Zelandoni told them. "Do not credit your strong arms and sharp spears too much, or you run the risk of insulting the Mother who provides her children to feed and clothe us."

"You have been given the tusks, as is your due," Joharran said. "That should be enough to honour the Mother, should it not?"

"It should do," Zelandoni said, thinking about the best way to display them to impress the other doniers. "All I am saying is, do not get too complacent."

"Zelandoni is right," Picard interjected, speaking for the first time in a while. "We must never take without thinking of the source – without realising that nothing is infinite. One day we might find that there are no more mammoths, no large animals left to hunt…."

Ayla looked at him anxiously, wondering what his true meaning was. She was too tired to press the matter however: her head was hurting, and willow-back tea had not had much of an effect. Her heartrate seemed up too, though she suspected that was just due to stress. Or too much to drink. At any rate, she wanted to head to her hearth soon – tomorrow was the Cave Ritual, and she wanted to be rested for that. The last time she had taken part in a ritual in Doni's Deep she had almost passed out, and she didn't want to embarrass herself in front of Picard and his companions.

"I think I had better get some sleep," she said, standing up. "Marona, thank you again for saving my life. Perhaps one day I can repay you properly."

"One day I might require payment, indeed," Marona said with a deliberate light-heartedness. "But for the moment, your friendship will suffice," she added, knowing it was not the friendship per se, but the social status attached to it that was the important thing.

Ayla picked up Jonayla and headed back to her hearth, her head spinning, from either the long day or the effects of the alcohol. She reached her bedding, and laid her child down gently before shrugging off her outer garments and snuggling into the furs. She could still hear the sounds of the feast, and their voices and laughter were reassuring to her. Ayla loved listening to the sound of voices as she lay in bed: she had spent three long and lonely years alone in the Valley of Horses, and the nights had often been deathly quiet. The vast gulfs of emptiness between isolated human settlements in the Paleolithic meant that it was possible to go for years without meeting another human. Each tribe was its own isolated little world, cut off from all others, save from a few traders and explorers, by the huge distances of the Ice Age universe.

.

* * *

**WORDM'S NOTES:**

The feast rituals are entirely made up. I don't have access to a time machine to check.

Elephant hearts can be between 20 and 30 kg. Huge things. I initially had it being brought by a shy young girl, then looked up the size of elephant hearts. They's big suckers, they is.

"Bouza" is the fermented alcoholic drink.

"We who are about to eat, salute you" is a riff on the Roman gladiators' "we who are about to die, salute you."

The Klingon words I used are real, and mean what the English translations mean. Took a bit of work to find a decent Klingon-English dictionary online, and with apologies to purists I have used normal English orthography in the use of capitals. The "touch of lilac" is a riff on how Klingons are supposed to smell—or how Bashir told Worf they did. O'Brien told Worf he liked the way the Klingon smelled, describing it as "sort of an earthy, peaty aroma," to which Bashir added, "with a touch of lilac." Later, O'Brien tried to get one of the other senior staff members to benignly sniff the air around Worf and say, "Is that lilac?"

I think _The Valley of Horses_ is my favourite EC book, at least the Ayla segments.

Anyway, this is a little shorter than usual, but I didn't want to post a mammoth (ha ha) chapter and make you all read that at once.


	21. Into the Deep

**21\. Into the Deep**

"Jean-Luc, you must drink this tea," Ayla said, holding out a cup of strong-smelling dark liquid.

"What is it?" Picard was barely awake, and his head was still a little fragile from the night before. He sat up carefully, and rubbed his hands over his face and scalp, getting the circulation going.

"We call it Blood Tea," Ayla said. "It is made from the roots of the hawthorn, mixed with ground leaves of the mandragora. When fresh it looks bright red, so that is why it is called 'Blood Tea'. Don't worry - it doesn't actually contain any blood."

"Pity," Worf interjected from his bedding, where he was nursing a nasty hangover. In the name of practical cultural experiences, Picard had refused to let him use the medkit to heal it, and as a result the Klingon was feeling rather grumpy.

The captain ignored him. He downed the drink in a few gulps. It was slightly bitter, but not too unpleasant.

"You must drink it as well, Data," Ayla said, offering the android another cup.

"I understand," Data said, taking the drink. He poured it from his mouth into the small food storage compartment inside his upper chest where enzymes would break it down for electro-chemical energy. It was a very inefficient fuel source, far inferior to his own internal sub-quantum cold-fusion reactor, but his creator, Dr Noonien Soong, had wanted to make his creation as human as possible, and that included being able to eat. However his capacity was limited, and so he had bowed out of the feast the previous night with the excuse that he needed to meditate.

"Do not have any food, either," Ayla said. "You must remain pure inside and out in order to enter the presence of the Mother."

"Better you than me," Riker joked as he warmed up leftover mammoth steaks and cracked open some boiled unfertilised quail eggs. "Come on Reg, get the plates."

Picard smiled at that. He would have gone without meals for a week to be able to participate in a genuine Paleolithic ritual, and knew that Riker knew that. And he knew that Riker knew he knew that.

"Come, follow me," Ayla said, standing up. She felt a strong wave of dizziness, and put it down to the lack of breakfast and the unusual tea. It passed in a moment, however, and she headed out.

Picard and Data followed the tall blonde woman down to the river. Ayla turned and walked up a little way, to where a slight bend had scooped out a natural pool that she had augmented with rocks to form a calm area of the river.

"We must wash," she said, and began removing her furs.

Picard blinked. While the Federation was a model of personal liberty and freedom in many ways, being seen naked, especially by members of the opposite sex, was not generally one of them.

"Hurry up - the water will not get any warmer," Ayla joked as she removed her top. Picard forced himself to meet her eyes and smile, and began to remove his own clothes. Data had already done so, having no inbuilt sense of shame. Picard recalled how Data's 'mother' had joked about how when he was younger he would walk around completely naked, not aware of the need for clothing. As he had been created in a fully-functional adult male form, this had caused some no little consternation amongst the colonists of Omicron Theta. Nor did he show any shame now as he stepped into the river: his modesty subroutine was a set of laws and reminders, not a social or moral stance.

Ayla slipped off her leggings and joined him, and so with a final deep breath Picard did the same. He gasped as he stepped in the pool. The water was very cold indeed, and the sun was still low and feeble, barely over the tops of the ridges. He was amazed at how easily Ayla seemed to be able to cope, and hoped he wouldn't have to stay in long.

"Let me do your back, Jean-Luc," Ayla said, holding out a scrap of soft leather. Teeth chattering, Picard complied, letting the blonde woman briskly rub him down.

Ayla had sensed his reluctance to enter the pool, but had misplaced the source of his anxiety. She knew that she was more able to stand cold water than many, and so as she felt Picard's slim body shiver in the early winter morning she knew she couldn't spend too long washing – a quick scrub, the minimum needed for sacral cleansing, would have to do. She finished Picard, and let him scamper out of the cold water and hurriedly put his clothes back on, and then turned to Data.

To her surprise he seemed even more at ease in the water than she was: Ayla found the water bearable, but certainly not pleasant. Yet Data appeared to not mind in the slightest.

"Would you like me to do your back?" she asked him.

"Thank you," he said, turning around and resting his torso on some flat rocks.

Ayla was surprised to see his skin was not even goose-bumping, nor were his hairs standing on end.

"Don't you find the water cold?" she asked, echoing the words Jondalar had often asked of her.

"It is somewhat above freezing," Data said. "I am able to cope with such temperatures far better than the – than Jean-Luc."

"How is that?" Ayla asked, curious.

"It is the way I am," Data said, not wishing to go into too much detail.

"Perhaps you prefer cold to heat," Ayla said, rubbing his back. She was impressed at how hard his body was: he did not look very strong, but under the skin he was like stone.

"Extremely high temperatures are somewhat unpleasant," Data admitted, not adding that he was referring to temperature that would be instantly lethal to humans.

Picard sat on the banks shivering. Shielding himself from Ayla's view, he used his phaser to heat up a small rock, which he then cradled in his hands to warm them. The water had only been a few degrees above ice, and he suspected that if his heart had been real it would have gone into shock. The ability of Ice Age humans to withstand cold was very impressive. The anthropologists and archaeologists liked to insist that the Cro-Magnon humans were identical to modern humans, and in all essential aspects they were quite right. However, just as the mountain-dwelling Sherpas of Nepal were far more adapted to thin air than most humans, those who dwelt in the land of ice and snow were far hardier in the face of otherwise crippling cold.

He looked over at the pool, admiring, despite himself, the attractive form of the naked blonde. He wasn't sure how old she was – she looked no more than thirty, at most. And in such a harsh environment, that probably meant she was only about twenty. He was slightly disconcerted to see hair under her arms when she raised her arms, until he remembered that modern ideas of grooming were very recent indeed. To people of this age, hair under the arms on women was no stranger than hair on the head. It was what humans had; how they were made. Ironically, he noted, Data had none himself: Soong had given him fine hairs over the body, but no chest hair either.

* * *

"Please allow to once again express my thanks for being permitted to take part in this sacred ritual," Picard said, bowing his head to the imposing woman who stood before him.

Zelandoni nodded. "You have shown your wisdom and knowledge are more than enough," she said. "Did you drink the tea Ayla gave you?"

"I did."

"Have you cleansed yourselves in the river?" Zelandoni asked.

Picard nodded.

"Excellent. We may begin."

She led the way out of the abri, accompanied by two acolytes, whom she introduced as Marahar and Jandalo. They nodded greetings to the visitors, and fell in behind them as the small parade of people wended its way down the bank of the river, moving slowly. At its head walked Zelandoni, slowly and deliberately, partially for the dignified effect, but largely as she didn't want to arrive covered in sweat.

After about half an hour they turned off the main valley, heading up a smaller one that Ayla told them was called Grass Valley. A few moments later an imposing outcrop of rock loomed ahead, almost monolithic in its dominance. Picard was not surprised that it was considered sacred: many cultures treated unusual natural formations as abodes of the gods.

"Can you see the Mother?" Ayla asked, pointing.

"That is it?" Picard asked.

"Do you see her? Look – that flat rock on top is her hair, then her forehead, that bit there is her nose, and there are her eyes, almost closed, looking out over the valley."

"I think I can see it," Picard said, squinting and trying to follow what Ayla was describing. He could see a flaring crest of harder rock rimming the top, which he estimated to be about twenty-five metres up, and then three roughly equal slabs of grey rock coming down and cutting back under abruptly. The middle one was longer, and this was the nose, he assumed. That meant that the eyes would be represented by the undersides of the two flanking rock faces. It didn't look very human to him at all, let alone female, but then he had never had much success at seeing a man in the moon either.

"There are very few place where the Mother reveals her form," Ayla told him in an awed whisper. "We are lucky to live in an area where her presence is so strong. This is a very powerful place."

"I can imagine," Picard replied in another whisper. While it was just a simple natural rock formation, Ayla was speaking of it as a Catholic might speak of St Peter's, or a Muslim of Mecca: to her and her people this was an immensely holy site, quite aside from its profound archaeological importance, and he would respect that.

A long path climbed up the side of the stone wall, which necessitated careful single-file walking. At the top, under a rock overhang, were two small cave entrances. Ayla pointed out the one on the left as a shallow temporary residence for the Zelandonia, and then in a hushed voice indicated the hole to the right, the entrance to the Fountain Deep, Womb of the Mother.

"We are here," Zelandoni said. "This is the most sacred site we know: its sanctity and power are not for ordinary people. Jean-Luc of the Picard and his acolyte Data have been judged as worthy, and are to be permitted entrance and a sharing in the rites and rituals within. They are not to speak of these rituals to outsiders, or to otherwise profane the memory of this space."

Picard and Data nodded, then Zelandoni then led the way in. The darkness was intense, the feeling of closeness and confinement almost palpable. The tenebrous gloom grew more and more oppressive, and Picard hoped they would not have to grope their way forwards in the darkness. Blacker than any night, this darkness symbolised the boundary between worlds, and for this reason Zelandoni deliberately did not allow anyone to light torches until they were so far in that no light from the outside world penetrated at all.

When there was no more light at all, Zelandoni bade them stop, and took out a small stone lamp from a niche she knew by heart. Taking out a firestone, she struck a spark, and the fat-soaked twist of dry moss that was the wick caught light easily. After the pitch darkness it flared out in harsh contrast, flickering over the walls. Jandalo took out a few torches, and soon they were able to move forward again. Picard held his breath as they moved further in, the only sound being a steady drip of water echoing in the depths of the cave. He was surprised to see small lamps flickering in the darkness along the base of the walls. People must come here regularly, he realised. Not surprising, he reflected, considering that the Ninth Cave was just one of many groups that would use this place for their rites.

Ayla shivered. She had dressed up warmly, but it was still cold in the Deep. In the depths of winter it might feel relatively warm, but at the moment the sun was still preferable. Every time she visited the Fountain Deep she was reminded of that time that she had followed Creb and the mog-urs and witnessed their forbidden rituals, been taken with them on the strange voyage of past and future memory that had left Creb so sad and distant. Now, with Picard here and her visions increasing in clarity, she was reminded of that time even more forcefully, and felt a cold knot of fear in the pit of her stomach. She worried that this ceremony would turn out to be something more than a mere Winter Rite, the regular thanks to the Mother for her year's bounty.

After about seventy metres the floor sloped up steeply, and it was only with difficulty that Zelandoni made it. She squeezed her great bulk through a narrow opening, and the others followed. When they had all assembled in the chamber, Picard looked around and gasped.

"It's a mammoth!" There, on the wall in front of him, was a vivid red-ochre depiction of the great beasts they had hunted the previous day. "And another!" he exclaimed, looking around.

Ayla smiled at his reaction, so close to her own when she was first taken in. She held up her torch so that Picard could see the paintings clearly. He leaned in close, holding his breath.

"Data, look at this," he whispered.

"I am," Data replied. "That is definitely a mammoth. Rather well done, too. Do you see how the outline is carved out of the rock, and then enhanced with this black line?"

"It's amazing," Picard breathed. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch it – these people were probably no happier about visitors fingering their art than were the curators of the Louvre. The mammoth was painted in side view, facing the entrance, and he wondered if it was some sort of guardian. Then a shiver ran down his spine as he realised that he was in fact surrounded by the very people who could explain its precise cultural significance. Trying to hide his excitement, he turned to Zelandoni, whose massive frame loomed ever larger in the shifting shadows of the cave.

"The mammoth faces the entrance because this is the Womb of the Mother," the large woman explained. "It from here, and other places like it, that the spirits of the mammoths are sent out into the world for us. Sometimes the animals face inside, and those depictions are so that the spirits of the animals can find their way back to the Mother again. These paintings are guide markers, landmarks that the spirits can sense. They contain the essence of the animal, as the physical animal itself does. These are as much mammoths as the creatures we killed yesterday. But these are the Mother's mammoths. In many cases they were already here, in the rock, and we have just made them more visible."

"And these?" Picard asked, gesturing to the abstract pattern of dots nearby. Archaeologists had puzzled over their meaning for centuries, and he was awed by the chance to finally know the truth.

"These are representative of the Hearths of the Ancestors," Zelandoni said. "The fires in the sky at night that burn with eternal flame. Here they are also able to watch over us, as their spirits find their way through the Womb of the Mother."

"Incredible," Picard breathed. He took a torch from one of the acolytes, and moved deeper into the cave. The flames flickered and danced, and as he moved and the light moved, the paintings took on an almost three-dimensional form, shifting with the shadows. Gently, barely daring to even breathe, he moved back and looked up at the ceiling, seeing spirit animals and ancestral hearthfires in the reddened light of the torch. "Extraordinary," he whispered, his eyes prickling with tears of emotion. He had seen cave paintings before, but always in the bright bold light of modern illumination, and in the company of officials and scientists who could at best give educated guesses about their meaning. But not now: now he was standing in a stone age cave, in the company of the very people who had painted them. He had never experienced anything remotely like this moment in his life.

He was brought back to life by a light touch at his shoulder.

"We should move on in," Ayla said, gesturing at Zelandoni, who was waiting patiently. The large shamaness had been very pleased by Picard's awed reaction, which was greater than she had expected. It was almost as if he was seeing spirit paintings for the very first time, and his questions about their meanings made her wonder if in fact his people did not draw out the spirits of the Earth Mother with such representations. That would be very unusual, if true. But such a powerfully spiritual man as Picard must have some ideas, she thought. He certainly seemed to understand her explanations immediately, almost intuitively. She did not doubt he was qualified to be shown the art and the ceremonies, at least. But time was getting on, and she wanted to get back in time for lunch.

They moved quietly in single file along the corridor. Picard felt as if they were going into the very heart of the steep limestone cliff, and wondered how deep the cave was, sure he would get lost if he were alone. They passed a parade of animals: horses, bisons, reindeer, but more than anything, mammoths. Picard counted several dozen on one wall alone.

"Why are there so many here?" he asked as they walked.

"You must ask the artists," Zelandoni said. "It is they who determine what animal is painted where. It is their Gift. They can sense the animal in the stone, the Mother-spirit of it residing in the rock, and it is there that they paint the physical form of it, to create the doorway between this world and the spirit world."

"Why so few humans then?" Picard asked.

"There are many humans," Zelandoni said, gesturing at a wall of dots. "See, here are more hearthfires of our ancestors. But more than that, we, the Ones Who Serve, serve that role by our presence in these caves. Here we can be spiritual guides, portals between the worlds."

Picard realised there was a subtle change in Zelandoni in the cave. She was more open, more sharing – almost enthusiastic. This was her domain, where she was pre-eminent, and she knew it: she could afford to relax here.

After a few more metres, Picard began to see a glow, and as they approached, it grew almost brilliant. His eyes had adapted to the gloom, and the dozen or so lamps in the innermost chamber were almost dazzling. Jandalo and Maranar bustled about in a corner, and Picard soon realised they were setting up a small fire in the centre, on top of a small cairn of stones. To his surprise, they set up a cooking pot over the fire, and in a few moments the water inside the rawhide bowl was steaming.

Zelandoni took out some herbs, and added a few generous pinches, letting it cook in a decoction. Maranar added some hot stones from the fire, and the small chamber was filled with a minty aroma. Picard sniffed it, wondering what was in the stew. He knew that many tribes used mind-altering substances to go on spiritual journeys, and hoped that this wasn't too strong: some drinks could be poisonous in large doses. Then he shook his head. Of course it was safe: everything about this ritual was the product of literally millennia of repetition; every gesture, every action, every single leaf added had been refined over more years than humans had been writing.

After a short wait, Zelandoni gestured to her two acolytes, and they laded the tea into mugs, which they handed to Picard, Data, and Ayla. Zelandoni took and the two acolytes took theirs as well.

Picard took a sip, and nearly gagged. The mint tasted distinctly odd, and he had no hope of identifying what else was in it. He glanced at Data, who nodded reassuringly. Whatever it was, it wasn't dangerous: the android had already analysed the substance with the first sip.

"Everyone, please sit and join hands," Zelandoni said after everyone had finished their tea. She herself sat inside the circle, her two acolytes joining hands behind her ample back. "Now we must call forth the Mother." She drew out a large flat stone, marked with deep scratches. Laying it on her lap, she took some of the ash from the fire, mixed it with a little of the leftover tea, and proceeded to draw an abstract shape that Picard could not immediately identify on the stone.

"What is that?" he whispered to Ayla, who was seated to his left.

"The Mother," Ayla whispered back, her voice filled with awe. Her head was spinning from the tea and the atmosphere, and she felt almost faint. "She is calling forth the Mother…"

Picard looked at the stone again, and suddenly realised what it was: a graphically-rendered depiction of a vulva. But he didn't have time to study it in great detail, as the chamber was growing darker – Maranar and Jandalo were putting out the lamps. Soon the room was dark save for a feeble glow from the low fire in the centre.

Ayla felt herself shiver. When they had held the ceremony for Thonolan in this cave soon after she arrived she had seen and heard strange things, things that could not have been real. She was suddenly nervous about what she would see this time. She could sense Picard next to her, feel the bulk of his presence almost physically, hear his breathing.

She suddenly thought back to the bone flute he had played for her, and thought she could hear it again, but clearer, purer in tone, a single pure pitch that held then wavered, trailing off into a low humming sound. The humming grew louder, echoing in her head, and she realised with a start that it was real: Zelandoni and the acolytes were chanting something. She couldn't make out the words, and for some reason she didn't think there were any. It formed an atonal fugue that echoed in the small stone chamber, resonating in the depths of the Womb of the Mother.

Remembering her first experience, she joined in, humming a gentle monotone, her body swaying slightly. She felt herself relaxing, slipping further under the influence of the drink. She knew it was pointless to resist, and allowed her mind to wander where it might. Picard's hand in hers felt warm and strong, reassuring in its physicality. She stared at the fire, watching its hypnotic flickering, hearing the chanting circle. As she stared, it seemed that the fire changed. It grew larger, and began pulsing rapidly, waves moving up the flames in rapid succession. It seemed to contain great and wondrous powers, its pulsing flames merely the outward sign of intense energies, barely contained. Somehow she felt that it was Picard who was directing this vision – his hand in hers seemed to throb in unison, a pulse that was not a heartbeat. She felt light, almost floating, as if she was in the water. She turned to look at Picard directly, but found herself floating in a vast void of darkness, the hearthfires of the ancestors all around her, and Picard's face smiling at her out of the coloured mists that swirled around them.

She blinked and the vision was gone, to be replaced by an aching sense of loss. She closed her eyes, and felt as if she were falling from an endless height. She hurriedly opened them again, seeing the walls of the cave and the animals thereon, and in front of her were numerous tiny lights, afterimages. The walls seemed to shimmer, and soften. She could see something – shapes, objects, she could not tell what they were. And now, as she stared up at the wall, the solid stone suddenly seemed tenuous, as though she could see through it, or even into it. Instead of the firelights barely glinting off the hard surface, the wall was soft and deep and utterly black. And she was there, inside that menacing, nebulous space, and couldn't find her way out. She shivered as her memory of a darkness deeper than any cave became real.

She could not feel Jandalo's hand in her left, but Picard's was as strong and reassuring as ever. He seemed to be leading her, guiding her. It was almost as if he were directing the ceremony, not the donier. He seemed to be calling to her, asking her to follow him. Unhesitating, trusting him implicitly, she followed. She was back in the mog-urs' cave, following Creb into the past, except that this time they were not going into the past, but the future, the future that Creb had not been able to show her, had not been able to share with her. She found herself floating, almost as if she was there and yet not there, in the future and the present at the same time. Her head swirled, and she felt a wave of dizziness engulf her. The last thing she heard before blacking out was a low, melodious yet inhuman hum, the last thing she saw a swirl of tiny sparkling lights surrounding her, supporting her.

* * *

Picard felt himself grow distant as the drugs took effect. He had to fight to stay conscious, to resist the desire to surrender to their effects. On his right, he knew that Data would not be affected, and that reassured him, but he could tell Ayla was being powerfully drugged. She was chanting in a low monotone, her eyes fixed and unseeing, her form almost hidden in the flickering firelight. Picard blinked, trying to focus. Ayla seemed to shimmer in front of his eyes, phasing in and out of existence. He squeezed her hand harder to try and bring her back from wherever she was, but found it hard to make contact. It was almost as if there was nothing in his hand – there was resistance, but no sensation. He glanced down at her hand in his, and saw it shimmer again, shifting in and out of reality.

"Mr Data," he managed to whisper, "I don't know how much longer I can hold out – I'm starting to see things."

"What things, Captain?"

"Ayla looks strange," Picard whispered, trying to focus his thoughts. "Sort of…here yet not here."

Data leaned forward to look past his captain. Immediately he let go of Picard's hand and took out his tricorder.

"Put…that away," Picard muttered. "Not here…"

"One moment, Captain," Data said, flipping it open and taking a few quick scans. His positronic brain, working at a total linear computational speed of sixty trillion operations per second, instantly processed the data, and came to a conclusion he knew Picard would not like.

"Captain, there is something very wrong with Ayla."

"Should... should we stop... the ceremony...?"

Data shook his head. "No. We have to get her to the Enterprise immediately."

.

* * *

**NOTES:**

Ooh, a cliffhanger!

Picard has an artificial heart, as is well known in canon. His internal comments about Ayla's body are a slight injection of realism amidst all the "blonde bombshell cavewoman" depictions of her: while she would be beautiful in any time, her appearance would be a product of her lifestyle, one far less pampered than our own, so I have made her look older than her years. Plus hair under the arms—apparently that only started being shaved with the advent of sleeveless dresses in the 1920s. I like to add these little things to make the world seem a bit more grittily realistic. Incidentally, I do find Trek very quaintly hidebound in matters of sexuality, and I suspect that the reality of the 24th century will be even further removed from the late 20th century than that was from the 16th century.

The Mother rock formation here is actually a real rock formation, where the Fonte-de-Gaume painted cave is. I cannot emphasize enough that this is a **real** place, where Palaeolithic people really did live. Auel has simply fudged a few dates – FdG is thought to date back to the Magdalenian period, some 17,000 years ago, a long time after Ayla's time.

I don't know how easily Picard could see the Man in the Moon, but I can never make it out. All I see are craters and seas….

The real meaning of cave art is much debated, and after some futile research, I basically made it all up. It sounds plausible, which is the main thing.

I love writing Zelandoni as both deeply spiritual and serious, and overly concerned with appearance and mundane things like getting back in time for lunch. She's in no way a fraud – she just takes what advantages she can get. And to her, of course, this is an annual rite, and not quite as dramatic as it is for Picard….

The cave ceremony of course is based very heavily on the one JMA describes. In fact some sentences are lifted verbatim, because I want to draw some explicit parallels and suggest other interpretations. Which is the whole point of this story, really.


	22. From the Stars We Came

**22\. From the Stars We Came**

"Ooph! I didn't realise water was so heavy," Barclay said, grunting as he set down the large sack he was carrying. It was made from the stomach of a mammoth, cleaned and scraped, and was now used for carrying water from the river to fill up personal drinking supplies in the Ninth Cave. Riker had volunteered the three of them to help out with the arduous task of collecting water and firewood. Having never used an axe before, let alone a stone one, Barclay had volunteered for the water duty. Riker and Worf were off with many of the men in a nearby forest, but to Barclays's embarrassment, it was mainly the women who collected the water. One was looking at him now, smiling as he straightened up and groaned.

"You do not seem used to this," she said, easily lowering her own container.

"Not really, no," Barclay said, wondering how to avoid having to explain about replicators. He looked at her, wondering how she managed to seem so fresh after five trips. She didn't even look that old – no more than twenty, at most.

"I am surprised it seems so heavy for you," she said. "The other men of your tribe are very strong, are they not?"

"Well, Worf certainly is," Barclay admitted. "Anyway, I'm a thinker, not a – a doer."

"A thinker? What is that?"

"Uh, I mean, I use my head to do my work," Barclay stammered. "Not my body."

"What do you do then?"

"Do? Um, I…I, uh, that is to say, I…don't know your name, by the way."

"My name? Don't you remember? We met the first night you arrived. I'm Lorana."

"Great. Uh, pleased to meet you, Lorana," Barclay said, sticking out his hand in a formal greeting. Lorana looked at it briefly, then grasped it.

"Well, that's nice. Lorana, huh? Come here often?" he joked. But Lorana just looked at him with a puzzled expression.

"I do not understand you. I live here," she said. "Why would I visit my home?"

Barclay was about to try and explain when, rather to his relief, he heard his name being called. Looking over Lorana's shoulder, he saw Riker and Worf jogging towards him.

"Reg, come with us – it's urgent."

Barclay made a quick apology to Lorana and then hurried towards his superior officers.

"What is it, Commander?"

"Just got word from the captain – something's happened to Ayla. He's transported her to the Enterprise."

"The Enterprise? Why? What's happened?"

"We don't know yet," Riker explained. "I'm heading back there now. I want you and Worf to remain here: if we all vanish it would create quite a stir. I'll keep you informed of what's going on as soon as I know myself."

"Yes, Commander. I – I hope nothing's wrong," Barclay added.

"Something is definitely wrong," Worf interjected. "Or else the captain would not have risked breaking the Prime Directive by allowing a pre-warp person on board ship."

"He's done it before," Riker reminded him. "That Mintakan woman, remember?"

"I do remember," Worf said. "She however does not – I hope Dr Crusher can remove Ayla's memory engrams as easily."

"I have no doubt," Riker said. "Keep things in order down here, and I'll report back to you soon."

"Yes, sir," Barclay said as Riker headed back the way he had come, to find somewhere he could transport unobserved.

"Lieutenant, you look as if you have been working hard," Worf observed, looking at Barclay's red face. "Good. Carry on."

"Yes, sir," Barclay said wearily, and headed back to Lorana, his mind a whirl.

* * *

"Captain, what's going on?"

"Ah, Dr Crusher. Uh, Commander Data can explain better than I can," Picard said woozily as he helped prop Ayla's unconscious form up. "Get me a…a…something for this drug reaction."

"Nurse Ogawa!" Crusher called. "Get the captain fifteen cc's of petrahydrzine, then help me here. Data, can you tell me what is going on? Why have you brought a stone-age woman on board the Enterprise?"

"She is suffering from chronometric radiation poisoning," Data began.

"I thought you said that it wasn't serious," Picard interrupted as Ogawa finished injecting him.

"Not by itself, no," Data said. "There's something else going on as well. In the cave, she was flickering in and out of existence, phasing from real to unreal."

"What do you mean?" Crusher asked, setting up a bio-bed and getting her medical tricorder out. She scanned Ayla's body, and frowned.

"Get me a chronophasic interwave scanner," she said, and took the device Ogawa handed her a few moments later. Crusher passed it over the sleeping form of Ayla, then made a few adjustments.

"Hand me the neural synthesiser," she asked, not even turning as the nurse handed her a long thin instrument with green lights. Crusher applied it to Ayla's left temple, then her right, and then injected her with a hypospray.

"She's clean. Give her an hour or so to recover," she said, stepping back. "She's not showing any danger signs at the moment. Aside from high amounts of… tetrahydrocannabinol, octyl methoxycinnamate, and some trace amounts of thiabendazole. Nothing to worry about – the same as the captain has. How are you feeling, Jean-Luc?"

"Much better now, thank you," Picard said, sitting up and rubbing his head. "Did you find out why she seemed to be passing in and out of existence?"

"I believe I can answer that," came a new voice.

Crusher spun around, stunned by recognition. She knew that voice, knew it more intimately than even her own. "Wesley!"

Her gasp was echoed by the rest of the crew. There, in the sickbay doorway, stood her son, who had left the Enterprise the previous year to continue his journey into the universe, his mental powers opening up the cosmos beyond where even the Enterprise could take him.

"Hi Mom, it's good to see you again," Wesley said with a smile, coming into the room. His mother opened her arms, and they hugged.

"What happened, Wesley?" Crusher asked when she could speak again. "Why have you returned? Why are you alone? Where's the Traveller?"

"I am here, Dr Crusher," came a new voice. A tall thin humanoid entered the sickbay, smiling benignly. "Good afternoon, Captain, Commander Data. It is good to see you again."

"You have brought him back? Are you returning my son to me?" Crusher asked, gazing up at the tall alien mentor with hope in her eyes.

The Traveller shook his head, his face solemn now. "Wesley is free to come and go as he chooses. I do not force him against his will. No, there is another matter which brings us here."

The Traveller moved to the bio-bed, and looked down at the unconscious form of Ayla.

"Her?" Picard asked, his eyes wide.

"You should not be so surprised," the Traveller said. "You yourself have seen proof of her abilities in that area. And this final evolution is what has brought me here."

"Uh, pardon me," Ogawa said nervously, "but just who are you?"

"My apologies. You do not know me of course. That is not surprising," the Traveller said smoothly. "You were not on board when I first visited."

"Alyssa, the Traveller is a being from Tau Alpha C, a remote planet some 630 light years away from Federation space," Picard said. "He and his kind have the…ability to use thought to control space and time."

"It is not an ability limited to our species, as such," the Traveller interrupted. "All beings possess it. Some more than others, in the same way some are better artists or musicians. Or engineers."

Picard nodded. "He used it in 2364 when the Kosinsky Equations went wrong and catapulted the Enterprise to the edge of space, and again three years later when a warp field experiment went wrong – in fact Wesley did most of the work then. He has been keeping an eye on Wesley Crusher, and last year offered to guide him in…in a cosmic journey not of physics, but of thought."

"I told you when we first met, Captain," the Traveller said, "that he and others like him were why I roam the universe. Here, in your sickbay, is another. She has the ability to use her mind to control time and space: to understand that thought and time and space are merely different manifestations of the same thing."

"So that is what she was doing in the cave," Data interjected. "She was phasing in and out of our Euclidian universe."

"Of course," Picard said, comprehension suddenly dawning. "Just as you and Wesley did before when you interacted with the cosmos. I should have realized."

"So…does this mean that this Palaeolithic woman, Ayla, that she is like my son?" Crusher asked, looking from Wesley to the Traveller and back.

"She is similar," the Traveller said. "But not the same. She knows nothing of engineering, still less of warp fields and sub-space. But each person manifests their gift in a unique way. The ability is what we seek, not how it is used."

"So this explains her visions," Picard said. "She really was seeing the future, then."

"That is correct. Dimly, she was able to send her mind through time, but only in moments of great stress. I first noticed her abilities when she was much younger, and was exposed to the time-senses of the people you know as Neanderthals."

"What about them?" Crusher asked, confused.

"Ayla grew up with them," Picard explained, his attention focused on the Traveller. "Go on."

"The Neanderthals had a strong native ability in this regard," the Traveller said. "But they were only able to perceive time in the negative – what you would term the past. This was a limitation of their entire being: they had no real concept of the future, and thus no ability to adapt to changes, save on a very limited scale."

"Why is that?" Picard asked, hoping to learn about one of the greatest mysteries in human prehistory.

"Some hundred thousand years before modern humans arrived in Europe, the Neanderthals did, braving the intense cold of an ice age. But it was not without cost. More than ninety-eight percent of them died trying to survive, until they adapted their physiology and lifestyle to suit. Inbreeding and genetic mutations increased the ability I talk of, but at the cost of the creative side, the ability to imagine differences, and how to adapt to them."

"So Ayla has this ability naturally, but it was honed by her long contact with the Neanderthals?"

"You are correct, Captain. It may have developed in time, but it was her relationship with a doomed people that has enhanced it, to the extent that, with this final input from chronoradiation, it has drawn my attention."

"You have come for her, then?" Data asked.

"I offer her the same guidance I offer Wesley," the Traveller said calmly. "To teach and to guide, to develop and enhance."

"You'll have to wait until she is awake," Crusher said. "Right now she needs rest."

"Can you keep her under?" Picard asked. "Maybe we can get her back home before she sees the ship."

"There is no need for that," the Traveller said. "Your Prime Directive no longer applies. Her path lies along a different road from her contemporaries, after all."

"I suppose so, if she really has seen the future," Picard admitted, somewhat reluctantly.

"She should come round within the hour. I could wake her now, if you like," Crusher suggested.

"No, not yet," Picard said. "I don't want too many strange people around her. Have her brought to my quarters. Sickbay is no place to begin your journey into the future." He sighed, and looked at the sleeping figure. "Especially when that future is thirty thousand years distant…."

* * *

Picard looked down at the peaceful form of the young woman on his bed. His heart was heavy, though he felt strangely relaxed. He did not envy her the destiny she faced, but her fate was out of his hands now. She should be relieved her visions were not those of doom, he thought. What she had told him about the Mother leaving them, the fate of the Neanderthals, dying worlds, dying peoples…. Picard found himself drawn to memories of a life that was not his own. Going to his desk, he took out a small thin box, and opened it. Inside it lay a slim silver flute, the same one that as Kamin he had once played, on the long-dead world of Kataan. It had been found inside the probe that had implanted the memories within him, the sole physical link back to that ancient civilisation. The flute was now one of his most treasured possessions, and a source of great comfort when he was troubled.

Standing by the large windows of his quarters, he looked down on the Earth far below as he played, seeing Ice Age Europe spread out before him under a delicate lace of clouds. Then he placed the flute to his lips, and blew gently, coaxing out a soft sad tune he had often played in the courtyard of his home on Kataan. It told of summers long gone, of soft green grasses, the laughter of children, and high, scudding clouds through which the sun shone down on the land, bringing forth life and happiness.

* * *

Ayla found herself floating in emptiness, in utter blackness. Above her, the hearthfires of the ancestors glowed with their unchanging light as the stars encircled her, like motes of dust in a sunbeam. She was alone, abandoned, and she tried to call out but no sound came. Then she looked down and saw a great glowing sphere beneath her feet, far below. It shone blue and white, and somehow she knew she had seen it before. Then it hit her: this was the Mother. How she knew it, she did not know, but visions were like that: one just knew things. The Mother was lying there, far beneath her, and as she watched she could see it shrinking, moving away faster and faster, and as it did so sometimes it looked like Creb and sometimes it looked like the First and sometimes it looked like Picard and sometimes it looked like a stranger. She stared at it until she could no longer see it, until all that surrounded her were the cold and distant stars, and then she began to weep, overcome with loss. The Mother had abandoned her.

_No, this is only a vision_, she told herself_. Fight it_. _Go back to the light, go back to warmth and safety of the hearth, of family. They are waiting for you, Ayla_, she reminded herself. _Jondalar, Jonayla, they need you. You must be there for them. Concentrate. You must return_.

Slowly, she became aware of a melodious sound playing near her, and for a moment she was content to just lie back, eyes closed, and relax. It sounded like a flute, and she wondered if Jondalar was playing for their daughter. _He's improved a lot_, she thought, and smiled. Then she became aware of another sound, a low steady hum, barely audible. It didn't sound like anything she knew, though there was a faint echo of the bullroarer used at the Clan Gathering: the same steady, otherworldly noise that spoke of both great power and great danger. Her fingers stole along the bed, and she suddenly realised that she was not lying on furs but on some other material, like Marthona's woven fabric but incomparably finer. Wherever she was, it wasn't home. Startled, she opened her eyes and looked around.

"Please relax, Ayla," came a familiar voice. In the dim light she could make out Jean-Luc's familiar features, but something was different. This was not Donii's Deep, nor was it the Ninth Cave. The walls were too smooth, too regular for a cave, or even for a hut. Was it a huge tent? If so, where, and why was she in it?

"What happened? Where am I?" she asked.

"Ayla, please do not be alarmed. I give you my word that you are perfectly safe. Do you believe me?"

"I believe you, Jean-Luc," she said, puzzled. "What happened?"

"You passed out in the cave," Picard explained. "For your safety, we took you away from the ceremony, and you are now with my people."

"Your people!" Ayla sat up, her head swimming. "How did we travel so far so fast? That's impossible!"

"There are a few things you should know, Ayla," Picard continued. She looked at him directly. He had removed his furs, and was wearing the strange red and black costume she had first seen him in.

"This is not a tent," she said, realising how big the room was.

"No, it is not a tent," Picard agreed. "This, Ayla, is my home. This is the Enterprise."

"Your tribe? Jean-Luc, why am I here?"

"I had to bring you, Ayla. You were very ill, and it was my fault you were ill. So it was my responsibility to cure you. And there is another reason. It has to do with your visions."

"My visions?" Ayla suddenly thought back to the one she had had just a moment ago. She turned to face Picard, and then caught sight of the windows. Above her, hanging in blackness, was the same great glowing sphere she had seen in her dream. A brief scream of shock escaped her, and she felt numb. It was not possible, it was just not possible. Whatever this was, it was not possible. This had to be another dream, or hallucination. _I must return_, she thought, closing her eyes tight. _Jondalar, give me strength, help me to return_. She reached up and felt for her totem, feeling the comforting lumps in the small pouch. _Great spirit of the cave lion, give me strength. Help me find my way home_….

"Ayla, are you all right? Please, trust me. There is no danger. You are safe. I give you my word."

"Let me return," Ayla muttered. "Help me find the way home."

"You will be able to return. I am with you. There is no need to fear."

Ayla opened her eyes again, and averted them from the terrifying sight outside. She focused her thoughts on Picard's face, on its reassuring familiarity.

"Is this a vision? Are you sharing my vision?"

"No, Ayla. This is real. You are awake. This is not a vision."

"Then what is…that thing?" Ayla asked, nodding her head towards the huge blue-white sphere outside, without actually looking at it. She kept her eyes focused on Picard: he, at least, was safe and comforting. He looked back at her, his gaze steady, radiating trust.

"Ayla, this is going to be very hard for you," he said softly. He moved in closer, brushing a control by the bed that increased the illumination slightly. He took Ayla's hands in his, letting her feel his solid presence. "I don't know how to explain this in ways you will understand, but you must realise I am telling you the truth."

She nodded. Picard was relieved, but was still wondering how to begin as he gazed at Ayla's anxious face. He saw it clearly, bathed in the soft Earthlight: the fine lines etched by a lifetime of physical outdoor labour, the numerous small scars that were the legacy of years of hunting and living among nature, the slightly reddened nose and cheeks amidst her sun-bronzed skin, the pale blue-grey eyes, and the full lips that now were pursed in worry but that when they broke apart in a smile were as radiant as anything he had seen. Picard thought back to another amazing young person he had known, who had found his gifts with the guidance of another, leading him to choose a path that would take him where Picard could never follow.

"Ayla, there is something I need to tell you, about your visions. I was not sure if I should, but in this case I no longer have a choice."

"Do you know?" Ayla pressed him eagerly. "Do you know what they mean, what the reason for them is?"

"I do," Picard said slowly. "Please, listen carefully. What I have to say will sound… impossible. But it is the truth."

Ayla looked into Picard's face, and nodded. "Remember, the Clan taught me how to see the truth in a person's face. I know you are being honest with me."

Picard smiled. The same incredible powers of observation that had so frustrated him earlier would, at least, make this easier. "We… my people… know of a being, not a human, but something far more advanced, who calls himself the Traveller. He has shown us that time and space and thought are all connected, but in ways we cannot even begin to grasp. But some of us, through the ages, have been able to see, if only faintly, what his words meant. I was privileged to know one young man who could sense the connection. He believes that… you could be another."

"Another? Another what?" Ayla asked, then suddenly the implications of what Picard was saying dawned on her. "Jean-Luc. What do you mean, the Traveller was not human? Was he a spirit?

"Not as such, no. He is from another world."

"What do you mean, another world? The world of the spirits? Or of the ancestors?"

Picard shook his head. "Neither. Another world of earth and rock and grass and sky, just like yours. But more advanced."

"More advanced? What do you mean?"

"Do you know how the tools of your people – the Others – are different to those of the Clan?"

She nodded. "They are finer, sharper, more delicate."

Picard nodded. "Exactly. They are more advanced. Just as in turn your own firestones or spear throwers are more advanced than what went before. That is the story of progress, as you know. But Ayla, the story does not end there. It never ends."

Ayla's heart leapt into her throat. She suddenly remembered looking at Picard looking into the fire, and wondering if there was a better way to make light and heat than firestones. Now, somehow, she knew there was, and knew that Picard possessed that knowledge.

"Jean-Luc, what are you?" she whispered. "Are you human, or a spirit, a manifestation of the Mother?"

"I am definitely Jean-Luc Picard, and I am completely human, as human as you are. I am indeed from a small settlement not too far from your home. I have not lied to you. However… I may come from close by in geographical terms, but nearly thirty thousand years separate us in time."

"Thirty… thousand? I do not understand the word."

"More years than there are stars in your sky," Picard explained. "Many, many more. A hundred times a hundred generations have passed between your era and mine. A vast gulf of time separates us, but we are both human. My people have simply had time to learn more. And this is the result." Picard gestured to the room, and Ayla looked around, puzzled.

"What do you mean, Jean-Luc? What is this place? This is not a cave, nor a tent, surely?"

"No, it is not. It is… a vessel. Like a boat – you know of boats, right?"

Ayla nodded. The Ramudoi used boats, giant dugout canoes, and she was familiar with them. But this was no canoe.

"This is like a boat that floats in the stars, not the water," Picard said. "It is very big and very fast, but at heart it is the same type of vessel as a dugout. In fact, we even call it a ship, which is just the name for a large boat. This is a star ship – this is the Enterprise. And we are floating high in the sky above your home."

"Floating in the sky?!" Ayla gasped, incredulous. "That's not possible!"

"With time and effort, much time and much effort, many things that seem impossible can be made possible," Picard said. "The Enterprise is the culmination of hundreds of generations of work and effort by more people than exist on your world. We stand on the shoulders of giants, but, as you can see, we are not giants ourselves."

"A starship… a vessel that rides the currents between the stars as a canoe rides the waters of the Great Mother. So that is what you meant," Ayla said quietly as she recalled the first time they met. He had introduced himself as being from the star boat Enterprise, and at the time she had not understood the phrase, and had ignored it. "So you cross the waters between the stars, like we go from one side of a river to the other?"

"More or less," Picard said. "You know the stars as the hearthfires of your ancestors, but in reality they are like the sun, only very very far away, so far away they look like tiny dots. Just like a man on a distant hill is a tiny dot."

"They are other suns? Why are they not hot then?"

"They are," Picard said. "But as I said, they are very far away. A man on a far hillside may shout as loudly as he can, but if he is too far away no one will hear a thing. So it is with the stars."

"What are they for then, if not to mark our ancestors' hearthfires?" Ayla asked. She was not sure why she was asking so many strange questions – probably, she realized, so she would not have to deal with the reality of her strange and disturbing environment. Talking, asking questions, kept her from having to process her shock. And hearing Picard's familiar voice helped calm her down as well.

"One of the problems with the universe," Picard said slowly, "is that it doesn't always have a 'why' to it. The stars exist because they can, in essence. In fact, they must. But this I can tell you: in a way they, or others like them in far far distant past, are indeed our ancestors, are where we came from. Every particle of matter in your body, or mine, or this spaceship, was once part of a star. Then the stars exploded, scattering their substance across space. Eventually, part of this substance coalesced, and formed the Earth, and you and I came from the Earth, indirectly."

"So she is our Mother," Ayla mused.

"In a sense. Ayla, come to the window. Do not be afraid. Do you see that great blue and white globe?"

"Yes – in my vision I saw her - is that the Mother?"

"That is a good guess, Ayla. That is our home, Mother Earth."

"Home!? What do you mean? I don't live up – up there!"

"Ayla, that is your home, and mine too. That is Earth, the original home of all humans. Do you see that green-brown piece of land there, between the two blue areas? Those blue areas are seas, the white is cloud, and that bit just to the left of that curving cloud – that is where the Ninth Cave is."

"No…no, this must be some sort of trick, a dream," Ayla said, backing away from the disturbing sight. She looked at Picard, desperate to find some slight indication that she was right. But his face was as sincere as any she had ever seen. Whatever else was going on, he was at least not lying to her.

"How can – how can that be my home?" she whispered. "It's far too small!"

"We are a very long way away," Picard explained. "We are much farther away than the Ninth Cave is from the land of the Mamutoi."

"But we got here so fast? How can that be?"

"Whinney is faster than walking, is she not?" Picard asked. "Now that you know how to ride a horse, you can travel great distances, and move much faster than a man on foot, right?"

Ayla nodded.

"We have found ways of travelling even faster in the years since," Picard explained. "We could now go from the Ninth Cave to where you grew up in just a few moments."

Ayla was silent for a few moments as she tried to take it all in. "You say that is my home, there?" she eventually asked, pointing a nervous finger towards France. "Where is the land of the Mamutoi, then?"

"I can't be certain," Picard said, "but from what you tell me, I would imagine it is somewhere out there, in the land we know as the Ukraine. Do you see the large blue mass below your home? That we call the Mediterranean, the sea at the centre of the earth. There is another large blue sea above and to the right. We call that the Black Sea. There is a peninsula to the north of it, see? The Ukraine is above that peninsula."

Ayla's heart skipped a beat. She knew she had walked roughly north from the Clan Cave to the Valley of Horses, near the Mammoth Camp, and she knew the Clan Cave was on a large peninsula with a sea to the south. _Could that be her home_, she thought as she gazed down at the brownish protrusion into the deep blue sea.

"Jean-Luc… does the Great Mother River empty into this sea?" she asked softly.

He pointed. "Just there, on the western shoreline."

Now she knew. Never in her life had she ever expected to see her old home again, yet here she was, standing high above it. For one wild moment Ayla thought of asking Picard to take her back to the Clan, to allow her to see Durc again. But she realised that the Clan would have moved on from the old cave, and she would have no idea where to find her son. He was somewhere out there, then, she thought as she looked at the strange patterns of the globe. But where? _How could I ever find him again? He has gone for ever_, she realised, and blinked back a few tears.

"Are you all right, Ayla?"

"You say this is connected with my visions, Jean-Luc. How?"

"There is someone I would like you to meet, Ayla. Would you come with me?"

Ayla nodded. She followed Picard to a blank wall, which hissed aside as they approached. Startled, she jumped back, her sling at the ready. But a touch from Picard reassured her, and she followed him through the hole that had suddenly opened up with the sound of a striking snake. She found herself in a long curved tunnel that reminded her of some caves she had been in, but this one was much smoother, the wall almost polished.

"How is the stone made so smooth?" she asked Picard as they walked along.

"It is not stone," Picard said. "The walls are metal, with cloth covering."

"Metal? What is that?"

"It is like a stone that can be made to change shape when hot," Picard said. "Here is another door, Ayla. Do not be alarmed."

"I am not afraid," Ayla said defiantly. Like the shock other people felt on seeing fire jump out of stones, the first one had taken her by surprise. But this one would not. It hissed open, and revealed a small round room. She followed Picard in.

"Bridge," he said, not looking at her.

"Bridge what?" she asked, mystified.

"Sorry, I was talking to the… to the intelligence that runs this ship," Picard explained.

"You do not run it?" she asked. "Who is above you?"

"My apologies, I should have been more precise. I do run the ship, in the same way that I control my body. But I do not control the beating of my heart, for example. The intelligence – we call it a computer – controls the beating heart of the Enterprise, but I control its higher functions. It will respond to commands, but cannot think for itself. It is like… it is like riding a horse, like riding Whinney. You give her commands, and she obeys them. The Enterprise is my steed, Ayla."

Ayla shook her head. It was getting too much for her. Her world had been turned upside down in an instant, and she was isolated, trapped in a strange place filled with strange objects and devices. Picard at least was a reassuring presence, but still, she didn't know him that well, after all. She wished Jondalar was with her, or even the First, as she might have had a better idea of how to deal with all this.

The door hissed open again, and she gasped. Somehow, the corridor had gone, and in its place was a huge chamber, as big as a cave. The walls were covered in what looked like extremely intricate paintings and designs, except that they moved and changed as she watched. In the centre was a curved piece of wood, in front of which were three large chairs, with two more in front of them. And at the far end of the room was a huge window, out of which she could see the curve of the sphere Picard had told her was home, and the blackness of the night sky beyond.

The room was busy: there were people at most seats and standing around the walls, pushing things and making marks of some sort. When Picard entered the young man sitting in one of the seats jumped up and said, "Captain on the bridge!"

"As you were," Picard said. "This way, Ayla."

He led the way to a another blank wall, set in an arch, that Ayla now knew to be a door. They entered, and she found herself in a small chamber, with a large table near one wall and a tall chair behind it. Another man was waiting in the room, a very tall man, and as he turned to greet her she gasped. This was the stranger she had seen in her dream, earlier. His head was a strange shape, and his hands were deformed. Or at least different, she reminded herself.

"Greetings, Ayla," the mysterious man said. "I am known as the Traveller. Welcome. I have looked forward to meeting you for a long time."

It was a few moments before Ayla could focus long enough to give her name and titles, but when she did the tall stranger just smiled.

"You have experienced a great deal," he said in a soft, calming voice. She was reminded of Mamut, or even Creb: there was a similar timbre in their voices, one that spoke of great age and wisdom. Picard had it too, but in a different sense. "You have been travelling your whole life, never knowing who you were, where your people were. That is not how it has to be."

"What do you mean?" Ayla asked.

"Come, let us sit," the stranger said, motioning to a bench against one wall. Ayla sat down, feeling it yield under her, softer than the finest furs.

"Would you like something to drink, Ayla?" Picard asked. "Some tea, perhaps?"

Ayla nodded. Some calming tea would be ideal at the moment. And she was curious to see what he used instead of firestones to boil water. But to her surprise, he simply walked to a strange alcove on the wall, said "Tea. Earl Grey. Hot. Two," and then took out two steaming cups of tea. He sat one before her, and Ayla looked at it, stunned. How had he made that so fast? Or had someone passed them to him through a hole she hadn't seen? She sniffed the tea. It was unfamiliar to her. There was a strong citrus smell, and another odour she couldn't identify.

"Remember that time I told you about the herb we simply call 'tea'?" Picard asked. "This is it, mixed with the citrus called bergamot for added flavour."

He took a sip of his with evident satisfaction, so Ayla brought the cup to her lips and tasted it. It was strong, rich and slightly sweet. As she sipped the warm liquid, feeling it revitalise her even more than her usual morning tea, she turned the cup around in her hands, wondering how it was made. It was not wood, nor bone. It was hard and smooth and shiny and transparent, almost like ice, but warm, and with a handle made of a shiny silver material which reflected everything perfectly. She had never seen anything like either of them before. But then nothing in this room made any sense. The bench was not leather nor fur, but did seem woven: that, at least, was not too strange. But the walls, the floor, the ceiling, everything was made of materials she had never seen, to designs she had never encountered, and with a skill and degree of finish that no one in her world could even begin to aspire to. Then, in the far corner, a flash of movement caught her eye. There, in a small window, she could at last see something familiar: a small fish. She didn't recognise the type, but it was definitely a fish.

"That is Livingston," Picard said with a smile as he caught he glance. "He is an Australian lionfish."

"A lion fish?" Ayla asked.

"Those spines around him look like a lion's mane," Picard explained.

Ayla could see what he meant. A fish that was also a lion – a lion! Picard, too, was guarded by the spirit of the lion! This must be a sign from her totem: it was telling her that although everything might look different here, she was still safe, still under the protection of her totem. A lion might look like a fish, but everything looked strange here. But it was a safe strange, she realised. It was different, but only in the externals. What lay beneath, inside, was the same.

"Ayla," the Traveller said, "you seek to understand the reasons for your visions. I can tell you them, share them with you, and even guide you in them."

"Are you One Who Serves?"

"The term is not familiar to me, nor is my function anything like what I imagine you mean," the Traveller said, his voice calm. "My function is neither religious nor that of a leader. I am just a teacher, a guide, at best. But I can help you, understand you."

"What can you do?" Ayla asked, her heart pounding.

"What I am about to say is going to be disturbing, Ayla, but please do not be afraid. Your visions are real, but they are not visions. That is to say, they are not dreams or hallucinations, though they may be accompanied by such, or cause such. You have been seeing the future, the future of the human race. Images you have seen you saw because you had projected your mind forward, to see them."

"It is like when a Seer searches for mammoth or bison on the plains," Ayla said, understanding.

"The concept is the same, perhaps, but the details are different. In a way, this is easier to explain to you than many more technologically-advanced peoples. You still have the animist philosophy of the universe. But words are not really enough. Come, take my hands."

He held his arms out, and Ayla nervously took them. Sipping his tea, Picard watched cautiously. The Traveller gazed into Ayla's eyes, and then shut his own. There was a moment of silence, and then Picard saw the Traveller's body flicker slightly, beginning to phase. Then Ayla's did the same, the pulses running faster and faster until they were almost a blur. After a few brief moments they subsided, and Ayla snatched her hands away, shaking.

"You will experience some slight disorientation," the Traveller said. "It is only natural. But it was so much faster and simpler to show you rather than tell you. You should rest now, and think about what I have told you."

"What did you see?" Picard asked after the Traveller had left. "Did you see anything disturbing?"

"I…I cannot explain it," Ayla said. "I know somehow it was real, and understand some of the concepts a bit, but cannot explain it. It wasn't the visions that worried me – I know them better. I know they are of the future, though I do not yet understand that future, and do not understand the role of the Mother in it. But Jean-Luc, that is not what disturbs me." She looked up at Picard, her eyes serious.

"What is it?" he prompted, concern in his voice.

"He made me an offer," she said eventually. "He wants me to join him – to learn how to use my visions to travel between the stars."

.

* * *

**ADD NOTES ABOUT STUFF HERE:**

I actually thought about having the Traveller-species remove the Neanderthals from Earth to protect their 'ability' but decided that would negate the Impending Doom of their tragic demise. It would also go against their own Prime Directive, I suspect.

The medbay scene is mostly made-up nonsense, though the chemical names are real enough, and hint at what Picard has been ingesting... Incidentally, the most stars we can see, on a clear, dark night, is only about 6,000 at the very outside. Well under 30,000.

Writing the scenes on the Enterprise, I have had to constantly remind myself that Ayla doesn't even know about metal, still less glass. Or even sails. It's quite hard at times.

This was an important chapter, and I'm not sure this was the best way this could have been written. There is one more chapter to go, which is even more important….


	23. Earth's Children

**23\. Earth's Children**

_Captain's Log, Stardate…negative 32,012,918. We are still on the Enterprise, in low orbit above France. The Cro Magnon woman Ayla has been brought aboard suffering from chronoradiation poisoning, exacerbated by the 'phasing' used by the Traveller and those who share that ability, which apparently includes her. We cured the radiation, and now she has been offered the chance to travel with him and learn the mysteries of the universe, in ways that the rest of us can only imagine. _

_I have brought the rest of the Away Team up, Commander Riker having explained to the Zelandonii that Ayla has had a sudden sickness, and that I am treating her in a special isolated area. He tells me they are nervous, but trusting. Ayla herself has requested some time alone to think, and so after she has rested I have asked her to join me in my ready room. In the meantime, I shall visit an old friend for her advice…._

Picard sat nursing a glass of wine in the almost deserted Ten-Forward, only Guinan for company.

"It's not your choice, Picard," Guinan said, after a long silence.

"I know it's not, but I still feel as if it's my responsibility. I was the one that brought her here, after all. And it was the Enterprise's shuttle-pod, contaminated with chronowave radiation, that amplified her abilities."

"That was just a temporary aberration," Guinan said, her voice low and soft. "You know that The Traveller would have found her anyway. All you did was set a time. Nothing more. Ayla's choice is not changed in any way because of you. It is not made harder – if anything, it is made easier, as she has you as a link between worlds."

"A link…" Picard mused. "I was a link between worlds once before. It was not a pleasant experience."

"And the Traveller is not the Borg," Guinan added sternly. "You are not Locutus of the Zelandonii."

"I know that," Picard said, a little too quickly. "I know that," he repeated more slowly, turning his glass and watching how the red liquid inside refracted the light. "It's what the Federation does – bring people together, act as facilitator. I have dealt with the Borg issue – it no longer troubles me. I just…."

"You don't envy her her decision, I know," Guinan said. "But I do not think it will be a hard one for her to make."

"You think she will not want to leave her people?" Picard asked, suspecting the answer.

Guinan merely inclined her head to one side, and smiled enigmatically. "She is not you, Picard. She is not a wanderer – all her life she has been seeking her true home. You are both travellers, both seeking to understand who you are… but only Ayla knows why."

* * *

Ayla was sitting on the floor, the soft fibres of the carpet an unusual sensation against her skin. After the shock of what the being known as the Traveller had told her, she had been guided out by Picard and a kind dark-haired woman who seemed to understand her feelings better than she did herself. The woman, who said her name was Deanna, had shown her how to work the sonic shower, and she felt much better after a good wash. Her clothes had been taken away, for cleaning Deanna had said, so for the moment she had nothing to wear. Naked, she knelt on the floor of the room Picard had said she could use, and prayed to her totem.

Out of the window she could see the great shining globe that Picard had said was her home, was the Earth. She still found it almost impossible to believe. But she knew that whatever was to come, her totem would be there with her, giving her strength, helping her decide. She fingered the worn leather pouch, feeling the familiar shapes inside it. What sign would her totem give her this time? How would she know? There were so many strange and mysterious things around her. Any one of them could be a sign, she felt. Or none of them. Perhaps it was not the strangeness of the sign so much as how out of place it was when offered: a sign meant nothing unless it could be seen, after all.

She looked at the Earth hanging in the blackness of space, its blue-white light drowning out the feeble glow of the stars. What greater sign can there be than this, she thought to herself. But is it a sign from my totem, or the Mother herself? Is she showing me her true form, in its entirety, to tell me something about my visions? The Traveller seems to be One Who Serves, his knowledge immeasurably beyond even that of Jean-Luc, but how can he Serve and not even be from the Mother? Who does he serve… and what do they want of me?

Ayla shivered. She was not cold – even though there was no fire, the room was pleasantly warm. Deanna had told her there were clothes in the room, but she had not found any. Just a sleeping pad, softer than any she had ever seen and covered with a cloth of such fine and intricate design that it could serve as the burial shroud of the greatest First ever – she had run it through her fingers, marvelling at its construction, wondering how many months, or even years, it had taken to make. She had not dared sit on it, for fear of ruining it. Wandering around the room, she had also encountered a strange flat piece of stone that was clear, like ice, but warm and smooth to the touch, and, astoundingly, gave back such a perfect reflection it was like looking at another person. Ayla had been entranced by it, and had spent several minutes watching it mimic her every move. After several years living among the Others, she no longer thought of herself as hideously ugly, and the reactions of various males, first and foremost Jondalar, had made her realise over time that she was even considered quite attractive among the Others, but knowing it intellectually and genuinely feeling it were two very different things. Each time Ayla saw her reflection, it reminded her of how she had seen it as a child in a pool of still water near the Clan cave, and how ugly she had looked then. Her past was something she could not escape from, even if she wanted to. Nor did living among others of her kind really change how she saw herself. Why did the Traveller want her? Why her? Was it because she was not really a Zelandonii either? She was Ayla of No People, and if she left with him, she would indeed be with no people. Was that worth knowing the answers to her questions?

Suddenly a clear sound echoed through the room. It was like no noise she had ever heard before, though similar to the note a slim stalagmite made when struck. Ayla jumped to her feet, looking around for its source. It sounded again, and then was followed by a knock at the door.

"Ayla, it's Deanna," came a voice. "May I come in?"

"Of course," Ayla called out, still nervous. The door slid open, and Deanna gave a small gasp.

"You're not wearing anything, Ayla! Why haven't you put any clothes on?"

"You said there were clothes here, but I cannot find any," Ayla shot back.

"You couldn't find any? Aren't there any in the – oh, I should have known. I'm so sorry, Ayla. Here, let me show you."

Ayla watched as Troi went to the reflecting stone, and tapped the front of the square box it stood on. To her astonishment, part of it slid out, revealing a shallow compartment full of neatly folded cloth. Troi pulled out a few garments, and held them up, smiling.

"You can wear anything you like. You could even go naked, if you like, though the people of Earth are not as accepting of that as my people."

"Your people?" Ayla asked as she stepped forward to examine the clothes.

"I'm half Betazoid," Troi explained. "That's a planet, a world like Earth, a long way away."

"Half Betazoid?" Ayla repeated, confused.

"In other words, half human," Troi replied. "I know you know what I mean," she added.

"You are a mixture of spirits," Ayla said in a whisper, the clothes forgotten. "Just as my son is."

"A mixture not just of two different peoples, but two different species, from two different worlds," Troi said. "The Federation, our society, accepts all its members equally. We encourage mating among different species, for it brings diversity and strength."

"Durc was strong," Ayla murmured softly, remembering. "He was strong as his father, and as fast as me."

Troi nodded. "He brought the best of two peoples together. That is the ideal the Federation is founded on – that out of many, we forge a single greatness together."

"Do you think that can happen between the peoples on – on Earth?" Ayla asked, conscious of how strange her question sounded to her.

"I know it can, and will," Troi said firmly. "But it will take a while, unfortunately. Come, the captain is expecting you. What will you wear?"

Ayla looked at the clothes Troi was holding out. The fabrics were so thin and smooth, and the designs made the cover of the bed seem positively primitive in comparison. On some of them, the fabric shone and glittered, sparkling like quartz. They were all incredibly beautiful.

"No, I cannot wear these," Ayla said, shaking her head. "These are clothes for leaders, for important people. Could I not wear something simple, like your own clothes perhaps?"

"Well, technically you cannot wear a Starfleet uniform unless you are in Starfleet," Troi said, and smiled. "But… since Starfleet does not yet technically exist, perhaps we can bend the rules." She winked at Ayla, then went over to a hollowed-out recess on the wall. "One Starfleet uniform, science colours. Size, uh… Nine-Alpha."

To Ayla's astonishment, a voice spoke out of nowhere.

"Please provide authorisation code to replicate restricted material."

"Troi, Deanna, Code AC109-Beta."

"Authorisation accepted."

A bright white light appeared in the recess, and the next moment Troi was approaching her with a neatly-folded outfit in the same black and blue combination she was wearing.

"You'll need these as well," she added, holding up two tiny pieces of clothing, neither of which Ayla recognised.

"This goes here," Troi said, indicating appropriately, "and this goes around your breasts," she added, holding up the second one.

Ayla nodded. She knew this – she had made something similar to hold her breasts steady when hunting while she was in the valley. But this one was so thin and delicate it didn't seem to be able to support anything – how could one hunt in this fragile piece of fabric, no thicker than a spider's web? It didn't make sense. But then little here did…. Could the Traveller help her understand? Was that her destiny? To go with him, and finally understand, learn the answers to all her questions? Ayla quickly shook her head to clear it of such abstract thoughts. She allowed Troi to fasten the bra on, and a few moments later was fully dressed. She caught a glimpse of herself in the reflecting stone, and couldn't believe how great the change was. It was like she was in a completely different tribe.

"Ayla… of the Enterprise," she said to herself, smiling.

Troi chucked. "It suits you. The captain is waiting. Shall we go?"

* * *

The gentle strains of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 filled the small space of Picard's ready room as the captain sat at his desk, thinking, turning the flint knife over and over in his hands as he let the melody flow through him. It was old music, from more than six centuries before his period, but the intricately meshed melodies were timeless, and wonderfully relaxing.

A soft beep signalled someone was at the door.

"Come," Picard said, and told the computer to turn the music down a few decibels. The doors slid open, and Troi escorted Ayla in.

"I'll leave you two alone now," she said, and Picard nodded.

"Thank you, Counsellor. For everything."

"You have been more than kind," Ayla added. "Blessings of Doni on you."

"And on you," Troi smiled, and left.

Ayla moved towards the desk, and sat down. As she did she became aware of a low sound in the room, a sort of melodic rhythm that sounded very unusual. Picard noticed her reaction, and pressed a button on his desk, increasing the sound. Ayla had never heard anything like it before. It seemed like music, but such music as she had never heard before.

"What… is this?" she asked, listening to the beautiful, alien chords.

"This is music that was written by a famous musician to please a lord," Picard said. "It was written a long time ago – from my point of view, but has become more famous than the lord for whom it was written, or even the country it was written in. The Brandenburg Concerto…. It is played on a hundred different worlds, by orchestras both human and alien, and many people who listen to it and enjoy it do not even realise where it came from. In fact," Picard added with a chuckle, "I believe that the Cardassians claim it was written by one Dar Larak a thousand years before Bach was born. No one believes their claim, of course."

"The music of your world – of our world – is played out there?" Ayla asked, gesturing to the blackness outside.

"All the good things of Earth are enjoyed throughout the Federation," Picard said. "And even beyond. Humans have always had a need to share the glories of our culture, to introduce ourselves to other civilisations. Hundreds of years before I was born, the first two probes sent to explore space carried with them a recording of some of humanity's greatest music, including this piece. These probes were called _Voyager_, and were symbols of our yearning to leave the Earth and explore space."

"But isn't the Earth enough for you?" Ayla asked. "Why would you want to leave?"

"To learn, to meet new cultures, new peoples, to understand more about the universe and about our place in it. We have not abandoned the Earth – far from it. It is still the centre of the Federation, still our home. But we are no longer bound to it."

There was a short pause while Ayla digested this. She had a sudden impression of bees leaving the hive, flooding out in all directions, with the stars as flowers. Humans spreading throughout the Mother's Milk, growing more and more distant.

While she was lost in thought, Picard went to the replicator, and ordered tea and biscuits.

"I see you have found some new clothes," he said, looking at Ayla in the Starfleet uniform. "It looks good on you."

"It is very comfortable," Ayla admitted, coming out of her reverie. "Blue is the colour of the healers in your world, is it not?"

"It is," Picard said. "Deanna, who was with you just now, is a healer too. She helps heal the mind, however, not the body."

"Heal the mind? What do you mean?"

"When people are experiencing stress, or there are emotional imbalances, she can help them deal with it," Picard explained. "We have realised that problems there can be as serious as a broken bone or a physical disease."

"How do you treat them?" Ayla asked, keen to improve her healing skills.

"I am not an expert," Picard said. "It takes many years of training. Deanna has certain… abilities that allow her to sense emotions, which helps."

"Like I can read body language?" Ayla asked.

"Similar, although in her case it was something she was born with, something her mother's people can do. But anyone can be a counsellor, just as anyone can be a healer."

"Could I learn?" Ayla asked. It was a tempting thought….

"If you are to join the Traveller, I am sure you could," Picard said, his face a mask.

Ayla started, remembering the tall strange man who had shared her mind and made her that terrifying yet wonderful offer.

"How can I abandon Jonayla, and Jondalar?" Ayla asked, looking past Picard, out the window at the globe hanging in the inky blackness.

"It is not for me to say," Picard said. "Wesley left his mother as he felt driven by the need to know, to learn, to understand how the universe works."

"I feel that too," Ayla said, "but…." She trailed off. "All my life I have been searching for a home, a family, a people. I want to know who I am, Jean-Luc. Where I belong, not how the world works."

"Perhaps the one is the key to the other," Picard suggested.

Ayla did not respond. She stood, and walked around the desk to the window. A smooth and slightly shiny barrier stood between her and the void outside, and she pressed against it, looking out into the darkness, at the countless specks of light that shone with a cold, unwavering light. Out there was the future, was where Picard and his friends lived and worked, exploring the edges of their universe, expanding the frontiers of knowledge. The Traveller had given her a glimpse of it, of the thousands of worlds, occupied by many different peoples, that existed scattered among the Milk of the Mother. But she couldn't decide. She needed to know more.

"How did we get here?" Ayla asked, looking back at the captain. "Why have we left the Earth and gone to live among the stars? Why have we abandoned the Mother?"

"The human need to know, to explore," Picard said. "We are driven to it, by our creative brains. The same forces that led you and Jondalar to invent the spear thrower have lead in a direct line to the Enterprise, and to the United Federation of Planets."

"Can you tell me more about this Federation?" Ayla asked. "I was shown many worlds, but do not understand what I have seen."

"Wherever humans have been able to travel, we have sought out new life and new civilisation. First by foot, then by dugout and horseback, and then by sailboat and railroad, automobile and aeroplane, and now finally by starship, we have expanded our horizons. Once we learned to sail the stars as easily as we sailed the oceans, we colonised other planets, new worlds, and now humans live on a hundred different planets across the Federation. We are one of the most populous species in the Federation, with more colonies than all other Federation members put together. The urge to expand, to seek out new frontiers, is very strong in our people. It is what drives us."

"Perhaps. It is what drives you, Jean-Luc," Ayla said. "And perhaps it is what drove Jondalar and his brother Thonolan to make their Journey. But it does not drive me: I seek family, my people, not strange new worlds."

"Then that is your own Journey," Picard told her. "To grow old among your family, to watch your children grow up and have families of their own. A journey of time, not space. With its own, unique adventures and discoveries. "

"If the Mother allows it," Ayla said darkly, turning from the sight of the Earth.

Picard blinked. "You know your visions are not caused by the Mother, surely?"

"Perhaps. But then how to interpret the feelings I have from them, of loss and abandonment? If the visions are real, then surely the feelings are as well?"

"Ayla, I honestly cannot help you there. Would you like to talk some more to the Traveller?"

"Not just yet. I…I need to return, see my home. I cannot think straight here."

This world was too artificial, like a cave painting come to life, an epic poem about another world. It wasn't real – everything here was so luxurious, so refined, as if the idea of objects had been refined so much that they removed all materiality – there was no sense of manufacture, of human creation. This ship, this world, this place of the future – these people would be like gods in her world, and yet they were human. It was difficult to see herself in this spectrum, to know her place. And she feared that too long spent among the stars would lead to too much temptation. She could not think here, in such an alien environment. She needed to go home.

"I understand," Picard said when she told him. "The Traveller and I will accompany you – someone has to explain why you were gone so long," he added with a slight smile.

* * *

"Three to beam down," Picard, dressed in furs again, told the duty officer in the transporter room. As they headed onto the platform, he warned Ayla not to be frightened. "This will seem like magic, but it is not. Relax and trust me."

Ayla nodded, wondering what was going to happen. She had no idea how they were to get to the Ninth Cave – fly on large birds, perhaps, she thought. But before she could think how big a bird would have to be to carry them, she felt a tingling sensation all over her body, and found herself enveloped by a strange twinkling glow. A low hum grew in intensity, and then faded, along with the lights. A cold wind whipped her hair, and to her utter astonishment, she found herself on the west ridge overlooking the river valley. It was mid-afternoon, the sun still warm, but there were gathering clouds that promised snow before long. Her newly-cleaned furs provided welcome warmth, and she turned her collar up.

"A very pleasant place," the Traveller said, looking around.

"Very," Picard agreed, breathing deeply.

Of course it was pleasant, Ayla thought as they started down the track to the valley floor. It was home, and home was always pleasant. Warmth, food, and family were all there, and that was all anyone needed. All she had ever needed….

"My home is down there," she said, pointing.

The Traveller smiled his enigmatic smile. "I know the way. It is not the only time I have been here," he said.

"You know of this place?" Picard asked as they walked. "You have been here before?"

"_Before_… is such a limited, linear viewpoint," the Traveller remarked as they walked down the well-worn path to the valley floor. "As is space."

"Q tried to teach me something like that," Picard admitted. "I'm still trying to understand what he meant."

"At the risk of sounding sarcastic, you just need time, Picard," the Traveller said. "You cannot force understanding, merely knowledge."

They paused at the base of the track.

"That way leads to my home," Ayla said, suddenly unsure of herself. "I… I should tell them I am back. Jondalar, and Jonayla – they will be worried about me."

"I will go with her," Picard added. "I need to try and explain."

"I shall wait here," the Traveller said. He watched as the two humans made their way to the great wide cave, under the rock that constantly threatened to bury everyone who lived there. He knew that one day it would fall, one day thousands of years from this time, driving the people who lived there to seek new homes. Humans were always doing that, he reflected. Never satisfied with what they had, they were constantly seeking change, for change was knowledge. And knowledge was power—power to control your environment, create your perfect world. He saw Picard and Ayla disappear into the darkness of the abri, and waited patiently as the sun lowered in the sky. He could afford to be patient.

The sun was nearly on the horizon when the two humans returned, the female bearing her child. The Traveller smiled warmly as they approached.

"I have managed to explain most things," Picard began, but the Traveller held up his hand.

"I am sure you did," he said calmly. "But there are other matters…."

"You are waiting to hear her answer," Picard responded, his voice flat. "But I do not think you should rush her. She needs more time to think."

"Perhaps not." The Traveller looked at Ayla. "I sense you have already made your decision," he said, his voice calm, dispassionate.

Ayla looked at him, her heart thumping in her ears. He could be the greatest teacher of them all, she knew. He could reveal everything she wanted to know about her life, the future, her gifts. It was so tempting to remain, to see what became of humanity in the far distant future, to fully understand the visions she had seen. To learn what happened to the Clan, and what her vision of the two brothers coming together meant.

But the price was too high. She knew that as soon as she had reached her hearth, had seen her family waiting eagerly for her return. There was no decision to make, after all.

"Wesley might have been able to leave his mother, but I cannot abandon my child," Ayla said. "I think you knew that from the beginning."

"I did, but I still had to ask," the Traveller said. "I must allow anyone who has the ability the chance to use it. I can but show you the door – I cannot force you to enter. And nor do I think any less of you for choosing your family and their future over your own."

"Thank you for giving me the choice," Ayla said. "Perhaps one day I will join you, but not today."

"I will return when you are ready," the Traveller said. "Just think of me, and I will know."

"I will," Ayla said. "But do not wait in hope. This is my home, the home I have found after a lifetime of not knowing who I was. I do not think I will ever leave it."

"Perhaps you will not. Perhaps your children will not. But one day, in the far future, I am sure your children's children's children will leave."

"Not for more years than I can imagine," Ayla said. She smiled. "And at least I know they will be leaving to join a good and peaceful people."

"We can but try," Picard told her. He turned to the Traveller, and tapped his comm badge. "One to beam up."

The Traveller smiled. "Do not trouble yourself," he said, and began to flicker. In a moment he had vanished entirely.

"Where has he gone?" Ayla asked, astounded.

"Back to the ship, I presume. Or to his own planet. I do not know," Picard said. "His abilities and knowledge are as far beyond mine as mine are beyond yours."

"They are? I had thought…."

"Ayla, as advanced as we may seem to you, there are species out there that are more advanced still. There is always something greater than yourself, and it is a lesson we have had to learn many times."

"Out there," Ayla mused, looking up at the stars. They seemed less distant, more familiar, now that she knew that one day people like her would live among them. But not her – that Journey was for others to make. She had made hers, found her goal. But it wouldn't hurt to understand a little more, she decided.

"Jean-Luc, can we walk a little before you leave? There are still a few more things I want to know," Ayla said. She tucked her daughter more firmly in her carrying sling, and indicated upstream. "Let us head to the horse meadow," she said. "I go there when I want to think."

* * *

_Commander's Log, Stardate negative 32,012,919.07, in the Upper Palaeolithic. Captain Picard is still down on the surface, but has said he will return within the hour. Commander Data has been working out the equations needed for the return trip, but the alien known as the Traveller has made a surprisingly offer. He and Wesley will transport the ship back to the 24th century, using their ability to meld thought and time and space. The only qualm I have is that the Traveller has suggested Wesley act as principal agent. I am wary about what could go wrong, but the Traveller has told me this is the best course of action. So I shall trust his judgement in this. _

"Commander, I am not happy about this," La Forge said. "We might end up at the edge of the universe again."

"Or in an entirely different one," Brahms added.

"I understand your worries," Riker said, "but I don't think we need worry about that – not with Kosinky absent."

"I see no reason not to allow the Traveller to take us back," Data added. "It would save considerable stress on the hull and engine, after all."

At the mention of the risk to his finely-tuned warp drive, La Forge started to relent. "Perhaps," he muttered. "Come on, Leah – let's make sure the intermix ratio is balanced properly."

"Of course it is," Brahms protested. "I adjusted it myself. Geordi! What have you done to my engines?"

"Your engines?" La Forge followed Brahms to the turbolift, and Riker watched them go, grinning widely.

"Commander, I know the ship will return," the Traveller said. "I know it as clearly as I know you are here in front of me. There is no reason to worry."

"Uh, Commander Riker," Wesley added. "It's not really that hard. Dramatic, but not hard as such. I don't think anything bad will happen – not if the Traveller is here too. We'll, uh, we'll be fine."

"You are learning well, Wesley," the Traveller said, smiling at his young apprentice. "Now to see if you can put theory into practice. Remember, time and space are nothing but thought, just as thought is nothing but time and space. Scale, size – all are meaningless. Are you ready to do it?"

"I… I think so," Wesley said. "I'll try."

"No. Try not. Do... or do not. There is no try," the Traveller said sternly.

"Of course. You are right, Master," Wesley said.

"Make sure that you control the chronoparticle release or else you will cause a vortex collapse," the Traveller said. "Then, when we come out, a time funnel will suck down the next ship that passes, all the way back to the time we left from… which might not be a bad thing, of course," he added, and smiled mysteriously.

* * *

"For what it's worth, I think you made the right decision," Picard said eventually, as they arrived at the horse meadow.

"I made no decision," Ayla said. "For there was none to be made. You know that."

"I do," Picard said, as he looked over the grassy field. The shadows were deep, and a chill wind carried the promise of snow.

There was a short silence, broken only by the neighing of Whinney, or perhaps Racer – the horses were too far away for Picard to tell.

"Jean-Luc," Ayla began, then stopped. She took a deep breath, and began again. "I want to thank you," she said. "I do not yet fully understand the ideas behind my visions, but you have helped me realise what they are. I know now that the future is not to be feared, that my people will survive and prosper. And for that I thank you."

"You have only glimpsed a small part of the future, Ayla," Picard told her. "Humans will survive, and even prosper, it is true. But…there is a price to be paid."

"A price? What price?" Ayla asked, worried.

"Ayla, the road to the stars is not an easy one," Picard said. He trailed off, watching the three horses graze in the twilight. It was a timeless scene – some things never changed, even in thirty thousand years. The Earth moved to a far slower rhythm than the mad, impulsive creatures called humans it had given birth to, and who had in turn covered it with their own reinterpretations of home. Villages, towns, cities, and eventually the giant megalopolises of the 21st century would drastically reshape both the land and human society, but even in the 24th century, the setting sun still turned the fields yellow, still lit up the clouds like banks of fire. Horses still grazed in their pastures, unconcerned how the world changed around them. Such changes, Picard thought. Such vast changes. How can it not have affected us in deeper ways than we know? Are we truly the same people, Ayla and I?

"Many things will change between now and then," he eventually added. "Change is what makes us what we are – or rather, what we will become. For better… or for worse."

He took out the flint blade Jondalar had given him. Turning it over in his hands, he watched as the light played on its rippled surface. "Such a gulf separates the knife and the ship, and yet they are both made by humans," he murmured. He thought back to her hearth, to the small room full of the bags and sacks that contained her life, suddenly seeing it almost as a museum diorama, remote and unreal. He felt overwhelmed by the vast gulf of time between them, the triumphs and glories, the horrors and suffering that separated them.

"I envy you, in a way," he said at last, looking out over the gently-rolling landscape, glowing golden in the late afternoon sun. "And at the same time I pity you."

"What do you mean?" Ayla asked.

"Here you stand, at the dawn of human history. There is such beauty, such wonder yet to come in your future, but at the same time, more horrors and tragedies than you can imagine. Was it all worth it? What price must we pay for knowledge, for art and beauty and science? After ten millennia of striving we are only now coming close to the peaceful utopia you have here."

"What is a utopia?"

"A word from an ancient philosopher – well, ancient to us, but far, far in your future. It means 'no place', and signifies just how unlikely he thought an ideal society was. Ayla, I wish I could show it to you – the wonders that your children will create. Great art, magnificent buildings, and music unlike anything you have ever heard before. The knowledge and understanding that has taken us thirty thousand years to develop. I pity you, for you will never know the power and grandeur of Mozart's Requiem or Beethoven's Ninth, never wander the halls of the Louvre or the Uffizi and marvel at the incredible art humanity will create, never experience the sublime perfection of the Taj Mahal or the magnificent solemnity of the Forbidden City, the limitless wonders of human civilization. So much glory lies in your future… and so much sorrow."

Ayla remained quiet, looking at the older man. His eyes were distant, unfocused, and she wondered what he was seeing with his mind's eye.

"So much sorrow," Picard repeated slowly. "I envy you, Ayla, for you will never have to know of slavery, genocide, great wars that engulf the entire globe and kill uncounted millions. The devastation wrought by weapons more powerful that you could ever imagine, Centuries of grinding poverty and hardship, oppression by harsh tyrants who conduct monologues above a million solitudes. Torture, religious hatred. Slavery and holocausts…."

He paused again, turning over the flint blade in his hands. "Are we truly better off, for all our technical prowess, our knowledge, our mastery of the world? Who is happier? Has it all been worth it? I… I hope so, for your children's sake, Ayla. They are the ones who will have to walk this road."

Drawn by Whinney's neigh as the mare trotted over to her, Ayla looked out over the landscape, dusk slowly creeping over it, seeing it almost as if for the first time. She thought back to the images she had seen, both in her visions and from what the Traveller had shown her, and contrasted them to the peaceful expanse that lay before them. For the first time in her life, she saw it in contrast to human settlement, and the idea that one day this vast free land would be cut up, paved over, and densely crowded was distinctly upsetting. Perhaps, she reflected, Picard was right. What was there for her in the far distant future that she could not have here? Did she only feel tempted by the apparent effortlessness of their life as she now knew about it? She had never felt deprived before, and none of the Zelandonii considered themselves as living primitive lives. Ayla thought of her own furs, which she had once seen as so elegant and well-made, but compared to the clothes she had worn on the Enterprise were barely better than skins, little more than the crudest Clan wrap.

"But your life is so easy," Ayla said. "You have machines to do your bidding, prepare food for you, make you clothes. You have warm homes and soft beds, and are safe from predators. How could your life not be better?"

"We have many things that you lack, Ayla. Including wars, wars that kill millions." Picard ran his fingers over his face where the Borg implants had been. "For all our supposed enlightenment, you are more mature than we. Ever since we first ploughed the earth, we have striven to return to this existence, the most natural one we have ever had. Once you start down the road that leads to the stars, you can never return. And I do not know if we would be happier had we never travelled it. All I know is that the road leads to great wonders, and great sorrows, but I for one would not have missed it. We are stronger for our sorrows, wiser through our experiences. We are… grown up, Ayla. All peoples must grow up, no matter how painful the process, no matter what treasures we leave behind, for that is what makes us what we are, what makes us human."

Snow started falling softly, the flakes silver in the rays of the rising moon. Ayla watched it fall, soundless, and begin piling up on the cold ground. She patted Whinney's neck, nestling in to the familiar warmth of the dun-coloured mare. The falling snow danced in the moonlight, and she brushed a few flakes off Jonayla's head.

"I think I finally understand," she said. "I am no longer afraid of the future. I just think it is sad that we will be so eager to leave this Earth."

"The Earth may be our mother, Ayla," Picard said softly, "but all children must leave their mother one day. We cannot remain in the cradle forever."

Ayla thought of how wrenching it was to leave the only family she'd ever known, losing Iza to sickness, Creb to an earthquake, and her own precious son to his fate. Then she looked down at the young child in her arms, and smiled, blinking away her tears. Ayla thought back to something Mamut had told her, back in the earth lodge of the Mammoth Hunters, that she had long forgotten. "Remember, the spirit world is not the same, it is reversed, upside down," the old man had said. Reversed. Like humans living in the sky, it was not what it seemed at first glance.

With a joyous flood of hope, suddenly she understood it all. Everything her visions, Picard, and the Traveller had been telling her. The Mother would never leave them: she would always be here, always be home, always ready to welcome her children back from wherever they wandered. Her fears of the future were actually hope and joy at the great peaceful civilisation that had emerged from its womb and spread out among the stars. In the far distant future, after experiencing both wonders and terrors she would never know, her remote children would create a home for themselves not just on Earth, but on many worlds – each star would be, not the hearthfires of her ancestors, but the fires that warmed her descendents on a hundred distant worlds.

"You're right," she said softly. "We cannot remain children for ever, for then our own children would never be born. I now know the meaning of the visions Creb showed me, the mysterious shapes and colours I could not understand, the fears I felt about the Mother leaving us. But I was wrong – it is not the Mother that leaves us, for what mother abandons her children? Rather, it is our destiny to leave our Mother, but in doing so we honour her, for we are the seed that spreads out among the stars to give life to new worlds – the new worlds in the sky that are truly Earth's Children."

Picard gazed at the beautiful blonde woman, his eyes prickling. Here, at the beginning of all things, he finally understood the longing, the source of that unfulfilled need that drove him to explore the galaxy. Never again would he look at the universe the same. This was the lesson that Q had been trying to tell him, the true goal of humanity. To explore not for the sake of exploration, but to understand what it truly meant to be human; to be alive in the universe. Looking at the young woman and her child, so like him, yet so very different, he knew it was time to leave, to return to his own journey.

He tapped his communicator badge.

"One to beam up."

The sparkling lights danced and faded on the new-fallen snow as the mother and child turned and headed back to the warmth of the hearth, to their home, their family, and to begin the greatest journey of all.

THE END

. . .

* * *

**FINAL COMMENTS:**

The Federation has always been a pretty thinly-disguised United States, and the bit about out of many, we forge one greatness, is of course the whole idea behind _E Pluribus Unum_. Which really should be the motto of the United States if Congress hadn't decided to act smug towards those Godless Commies and adopted "In God We Trust" instead.

Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 is one of the works included on the Golden Records sent out into interstellar space with the two Voyager craft.

The Traveller's comment about "before being such a limited viewpoint" is meant to suggest that this is not the last time (linearly) that he and Ayla will meet…. But no, I have no plans for a sequel.

The "do or do not, there is no try" of course is pinched from Yoda. Sorry, I mean is from Yoda pinched…. And if it isn't blazingly obvious, Wesley slightly screws up and does create a vortex, which does suck down the next ship to pass by, which is… the shuttle Picard and Data were on in the first place. And the time loop is closed….

The "tyrants who conduct monologues above a million solitudes" quote is from Albert Camus, and is a line I rather like. So Picard likes it too…. "We cannot remain in the cradle forever" is stolen from Tsiolkovsky, the pioneering Russian rocket scientist, who said "Earth is the cradle of humanity, but one cannot live in the cradle forever." Also a favourite quote of Arthur C. Clarke.

And finally, thank you to all those that made it this far, and especially AvidReaderAlso for all her reviews and encouragement. I am sure that the concept of smooshing together EC and ST was off-putting to many, but I hope those who gave it a go have found it worth the read, and that I have created a story that gives an actual meaning to this crossover, with both sides balanced, both learning and growing.

Wordmangler

Posted 1 July 2014


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